The Secrets We Keep
by hellogoodbye57
Summary: My own take on what happened in Ireland before the show. However, I have added an additional twist which makes this story a definite AU. The M rating is mostly for violence, language, and suggestive themes (it is Burn Notice, after all), but there are a couple fairly explicit scenes. I'll call them out if you want to skip over that.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Since I'm attempting to expand my writing horizons, this story will be in first person but the perspective will change from chapter to chapter (so far, it just switches between Fiona and Michael but I may add in other characters later). The perspective is called out at the beginning. Also, I tried to stay as true to character as I could given the varying circumstances I placed them in and the fact that Michael is under a cover at the beginning of the story. If you feel that I erred, please call me out on it in reviews. I'm always happy to take constructive feedback. My timeline is also a bit odd since I tried to fit this in with history as well as the Burn Notice timeline but it didn't work as well as I hoped (the Good Friday Agreement was in 1998, but Michael and Fiona probably would not have met until 1999 or so based on the fact that Sam's nine-year-old son introduced in Season 2 could have been Michael's). I went with history instead of Burn Notice where the timelines conflicted, so this starts a bit earlier than other stories about Ireland.

 **Chapter 1 (Fiona)**

I didn't need Sean's whispered warning to know that the dark-haired man in the corner of the pub had been watching me for a couple weeks. In fact, I had spotted him twice before, always trying to remain discreet while he snuck surreptitious glances at me. I wasn't sure who he was—maybe British intelligence, maybe a filthy loyalist, or maybe just a man looking to get in my pants—but whatever his motives, his interest was concerning. Sean offered to take him out for me, to deal with him quietly. I knew what Sean's brand of dealing with people entailed, so I refused. The man might still have knowledge that could prove useful, and if he did not, I could take care of my own problems. I did not need my brothers swooping in to help me.

I carefully made my way to the back of the pub, weaving around the couples slowly moving around the dance floor. Seamus's contact was meeting me here, a man who knew the type of people who could get a lot of guns for a decent price. They had sent me along to make the first contact, for I had always been able to get the best price, especially from men. Of course, Sean and Seamus were both on the other side of the pub for backup. I had protested, pointing out that I was perfectly capable of taking care of things myself, but my brothers had always been overprotective, and the current night was no exception. And so I had resigned myself to my fate, promising them that if they ruined the deal for me, there would be hell to pay. At least they looked a bit frightened at that.

The song changed, and movement caught my eye. Someone was approaching me, but it was still far too early to be my contact. I looked closer, realizing as I did so that it was the man who had been following me, the one I had seen out of the corner of my eye all day. I studied him carefully as he approached, my hand moving to the small of my back where I kept my pistol. He was good-looking, I noticed almost immediately, with short, dark hair and eyes that seemed too blue to be natural. He was wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up, revealing muscular forearms. It was open at the top as well, revealing the smooth planes of his upper chest. "Can I have a dance?" he questioned when he was close enough to talk. It seemed pants it was then. I gave my typical response, a response that had sent many a would-be suitor running for the hills. My gun came out and pressed into his stomach before he had a chance to react. I had earned a reputation for one of the quickest draws in Ireland. The stranger glanced down at the gun before looking back at me with a smile. "I assume that means yes," he remarked with a huff of a laugh. I had to admit, the smile made him even more attractive, adding a glint to his blue eyes that had them sparkling even in the dim light of the pub. His reaction was also not at all what I was expecting; the man apparently had nerves of steel. Intrigued, I put the gun away.

"Ya've been watchin' me fer a long time," I remarked as he took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. His hands dwarfed mine, and as our fingers laced together, I felt something that I could not quite explain. "Are ya sure a dance is all ya're after?"

"TIs a start," he answered, a hint of a smile in his tone. He used the hand on my back to pull me closer as he began to move in time to the music. His warmth surrounded me, chasing away some of the chill of the early winter air.

"So what's yar name?"

"Michael McBride."

"Nice t'meet ya, Mr. McBride."

"The pleasure's all mine." His Irish lilt was different than many I had heard, more like that of those living to the south.

"Where are ya from, McBride?" I asked as he guided me smoothly across the floor.

"Kilkenny," he answered, confirming my suspicions.

"And what brings a nice lad from Kilkenny up t'Northern Ireland?"

"The same thing as everyone else—lookin' fer work."

"And have ya found it?"

"Not yet, but I haven't been here long." He smiled at me, and my heart beat a bit faster. Our movements had slowed slightly so that we were swaying more than dancing, and I had to remind myself that men were trouble, especially men with smiles like his. It was a man like him who had gotten me into trouble in the first place.

We danced for another hour or so before a glance at my watch told me that it was time to meet my contact, and I pulled back with more reluctance than I had expected. His expression turned puzzled. "I have t'go. I have a. . . meetin'," I explained.

"Tis an odd time fer a meetin'," he remarked, his eyes searching mine. I dropped my gaze to the floor, uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. Though I searched my mind for a response to his admittedly reasonable suspicion, none was forthcoming. Instead, I pulled away, intending to go. Better he wonder about who I was and what I was doing than know the truth. However, his hand kept mine, stopping me from pulling away. "When yar meetin' ends, what d'ya say te another dance?" he questioned, eyes pleading. I stared at him a moment, mesmerized, finding myself unable to do anything except nod in acquiescence at his request. His smile widened. "Til later then," he said, dropping my hand. With that, he disappeared into the crowd, letting me go.

I glanced over to where I had seen my brothers earlier and saw they were deep in conversation with some of their old friends, laughing as they shared a pitcher. Part of me was grateful that they were likely too distracted to notice my extended time with the stranger, but another part of me was annoyed. They had insisted on joining me at the pub for backup, but it would be hard to do that when they were too busy drinking and laughing. Of course, it did not particularly matter. I could handle the deal myself; in fact, I could sometimes handle it better when contacts weren't expecting to be dismembered by my brothers at any moment. With that thought in mind, I made my way to the front of the pub, eyes searching the people surrounding me.

My contact was not hard to spot; he was the only person who was not drinking or dancing. He also looked like a hired gun with muscles that nearly bulged out of the leather jacket he was wearing and close-cropped hair that made his head look square. He had obviously spotted me as well, for he inclined a head toward the door. I stepped in that direction, meeting him just outside. "I thought I was meetin' wit' Declan," I said, crossing my arms in front of my body.

"Y'are," he grunted. "I'm jes' here t'make sure things go as planned."

"As long as tis no funny business, yar boss will be very happy."

"Indeed I will," a new voice remarked. I glanced to the side and saw a new man emerge from the shadows. He wore much nicer clothes than the other man, and his body looked less suited for fighting. I guessed this was Declan. "Ya know, when Seamus called with the deal, I thought twas too good t'be true. Here I am with some extra guns, and lo and behold, here Seamus is with a need fer 'em. And then he tells me he's sending his sister, the beautiful and infamous Fiona Glenanne, t'make the deal. Tis so perfect, I couldn't've arranged it better meself." As he spoke, Declan continued to move closer to me, and warning bells went off in my head. Something was wrong. He was not acting like a man about to make a business deal.

"Me brothers are right inside, Declan. One shout from me, and-"

"Yar brothers are too focused on the drinks I bought them'n the women I sent over t'come te yar rescue. Tis just ya an' me an'a couple o'my friends." The situation was rapidly deteriorating, and I searched my brain, trying to determine my next move. My hand slowly inched around my body, reaching for my gun, but a much larger hand grabbed my wrist before I could touch it. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw my initial contact standing behind me, gripping my wrist so tightly I would have bruises in the morning. If I made it that long.

"What d'ya want, Declan?"

"Money. Only I was thinkin', if Seamus was willin' t'pay fer guns, how much more would he be willin' te pay for his only livin' sister?" Declan stepped even closer, reaching out a hand to run it through my hair. I attempted to swing my arm forward to hit him, but the behemoth behind me grabbed my second hand as well, pinning them both behind my back with some sort of rope. I had to settle for spitting at Declan instead, but I made it count, hitting him right between the eyes. He wiped the liquid away with a laugh. "I've heard ya was a feisty one. No matter. That jes' makes things more excitin'." From the corner of my eye, I saw a third figure step out of the shadows as well, this one as burly as the first, obviously a second muscle man. I glanced around, searching for a method of escape, but there was nothing. I was outnumbered and outgunned. With no other option, I opened my mouth to attract attention, but before I could, the second man clamped a large hand over my mouth. It smelled of sweat and dirt, and I nearly gagged but held it in. I began to struggle, throwing my head back in an attempt to stun my captor, but he ducked the blow. I kicked my legs out towards the second man, but though I made contact, he was unfazed. I may have been a good fighter, but size had its advantages, and each man was at least twice my size.

Before I could consider what to do next, I heard movement nearby. At first, I thought it was another of Declan's men, come to make sure I couldn't escape. Despite the circumstances, that thought made me smile slightly. It was nice to know that I had built up such a reputation that Declan thought he needed three armed men to kidnap me. I just hoped that it ended quickly. I had read the horror stories before, of women who were captured and gang-raped before being killed. I assumed such a fate awaited me, and it scared me more than I wanted to admit.

Interestingly, the newcomer did not approach me immediately; instead, he slunk back into the shadows cast by the walls of the pub, moving towards the first man. I wondered if he was going to help hold me down from behind as well. Before I could wonder long, however, I heard a thud and a grunt of pain, and the grip on my arm loosened. Turning, I saw that the newcomer was none other than McBride, the man with the captivating smile who had held me on the dance floor less than fifteen minutes before. He held a pistol in his hand, the butt of which he had used to club my captor in the head. Though the blow had momentarily stunned the large man, he had not fallen, and he stumbled a bit as he moved toward McBride. McBride ducked under the first blow, dropping the pistol and jamming his elbow back into the other man's neck before grabbing his arm and twisting it behind him. He propelled the man forward, slamming him into his partner in a move that sent them both stumbling into the wall of the pub. One crumpled, but the other turned, gun in the air. McBride grabbed the wrist of the hand with the gun, forcing it into the air before slamming it down across his leg. The man screamed in agony, and McBride used the opportunity to spin him around, sending his elbow into his face. I watched, fascinated, as the man also crumpled to the ground. I glanced at McBride briefly. Gone was the easy smile from earlier; instead, his mouth was set in a hard line, and his eyes had turned icy as he moved toward Declan. The older man reached behind him, presumably for a weapon, but McBride was quicker. He grabbed the man's thumb, twisting it into a thumb lock as raised Declan's arm above his head. "I never want t'see ya or any of yar men 'round here again. If I do, yar goin' t'come away wit' more'n jes' a broken thumb and a couple o'concussions. Understood?" Declan nodded quickly, and McBride released him. "Get out of my sight." Immediately, Declan turned and ran without once looking back. McBride turned to me.

"Y'okay?" he questioned. His voice had dropped its hardened edge and was instead laced with concern. The difference had me reeling for a moment, and I stared at him.

"Who are ya?" I questioned.

"Michael McBride," he answered, his words a bit guarded.

"Ye jes' brought down three armed men, Michael McBride. Tis not normal."

"Tis also not normal fer a young woman t'be meetin' three armed men by herself." My eyes dropped to the ground, unable to refute that statement. I had grown too reckless, something I was sure Pat would yell at me for later.

"I didn't expect there t'be three," I told him. "Twas jes' s'posed t'be a business deal."

"And what were ya buyin' at nearly midnight? Twas certainly not biscuits."

"It doesn't matter." I paused, the words at the tip of my tongue but hard to say. "Thank you," I finally told him. With that, I turned to re-enter the pub, but his voice stopped me.

"I was in the army," he remarked. I turned, confused at the new direction of the conversation. "Where I learned to fight. Twas in the army."

"Thought ya said ya were lookin' fer work."

"I am. I said I was in the army, not that I still am."

"Why not? Ya obviously have the skills fer it."

His eyes dropped, refusing to meet my gaze. "I saw a fellow soldier, a man I had served with gun down a woman an' two children jes' because she happened t'be mixed up with a man robbin' banks. She hadn't even had any part o'it, didn't know what he was doin' but they killed her anyway." He glanced back up, meeting my eyes. "S'pose that was the last straw fer me. I couldn't work for an organization like that, so I quit. Worked a few odd jobs before moving to Belfast since I heard that's where de work is."

I studied him for a moment. His story seemed sincere, even plausible. I had witnessed firsthand the atrocities which could be committed in the name of peacekeeping—and the effect they had on everyone else. In fact, his was a fairly typical story of a young man who goes to the army to help out with a greater cause only to realize that there is no greater cause truly worth helping except that of humanity, and the army is generally the least effective at helping humanity. However, something nagged at me, a small seed of doubt in the back of my mind. I pushed it to the side, however, knowing I owed him. He had definitely saved my life. Determined to repay him, I held out a hand. "Meetin's over. Can I have a dance?" He smiled as he placed his hand in mind, and we walked back into the pub, joining the other customers on the dance floor. Seamus and Sean were deep in conversation, and I noticed when I glanced over at them that they did not appear to have even missed me. At least their lack of interest would give me plenty more time with the elusive McBride.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 (Michael)**

I woke up in a cold sweat, and for a moment, I thought it had been a nightmare. It would not have been the first time I had awoken from them—in my line of work, one tended to accumulate a number of ghosts which haunted one's sleep. However, on the current occasion, the cause of my awakening appeared to be less about fright and more about something else, something far more pleasant. Glancing down, I confirmed my suspicions, noting that I was fully erect. I could not remember my dream which had contributed to that state of being, but I had a sneaking suspicion that involved a lovely young Irish woman who had danced in my arms until the pub had closed the previous night.

Swinging my legs out of the bed, I padded to the dresser crammed into one corner of the small flat and dug through the drawers until I found a set of running clothes. Hopefully the exercise would clear my head and help me start planning my next move. I knew I needed to get my head back in the game for the mission to be a success; the previous night had been an enjoyable one, but I had erred, let myself go off script. My cover ID was not supposed to have been in the army; Michael McBride was supposed to be a nice boy from Kilkenny who got a degree in engineering and had moved to Belfast looking for work. That degree was my ticket in. One of the legitimate businesses the Glenanne family ran was a textile factory which had recently lost one of its engineers under rather suspicious circumstances. Many suspected he was taken by the British government, for he was in Patrick Glenanne's inner circle. I suspected as much as well, but it was not my place to question.

The original mission had been simple. I would run into one of the younger brothers at the pub and start talking. Over a few rounds of drinks, they would learn about my run of bad luck finding an engineering job and hopefully suggest the factory. If the didn't, I would simply have to be more convincing until they eventually brought me to meet big brother Pat who would have little choice but to hire me given that I was the perfect man for the job on paper—a degree in mechanical engineering, a couple run-ins with the British government that gave us a rather rocky relationship, and some experience in textile manufacturing. It also helped that every other candidate had been removed by the CIA. Once inside the manufacturing plant, I was to gather intelligence on the man in charge, a man named Finn Dougherty who was also part of the Glenanne inner circle. Ostensibly, he was card carrying member of the IRA, but our intelligence showed he was using that organization and the factory to launder dirty money and run drugs and weapons into a number of unstable countries. The CIA wanted me to figure out who his contacts were in the various countries so that we could hopefully take down not just Dougherty but a number of other criminals making our lives difficults. Our intelligence was not clear if Patrick knew about the operation or not, but the American government did not much care. All we cared about was stopping the flow of weapons into already unstable political climates. If we happened to take out a few IRA members in the process, perhaps the British government would thank us instead of suspending all joint operations as they were likely to do if they realized that the US was running a mission on their soil without their permission. We had considered telling them, but the upper management at the CIA was afraid that if we involved MI6, they would want to use the mission for their own goals instead, goals which would tend more towards taking down the IRA than stopping a weapons smuggler. My bosses wanted no distractions.

I spent my first two weeks in Ireland scouting the area, learning the customs and cultures so I could make a passable Irishman when I finally made my introduction. When I felt ready, I went to a pub I knew the younger Glenanne's frequented, bought a pint, and waited. I spotted Sean Glenanne first, talking to a couple other men at a corner table. I watched them surreptitiously for a moment, hoping to get the man alone for my pitch. Before that could occur, however, I saw her. She was sitting across from a much larger man with a disassembled pistol in front of her. Fascinated, I watched as she and the man both put their weapons together, her hands putting the pieces in place with practiced ease. She finished while he was still putting the slide in place and stood, pointing it at his heart. The empty chamber clicked as she pulled the trigger. "Ya're dead," she told him to a roar of laughter.

The bartender had warned me away from her, and I knew it was good advice for more reasons than one, but my eyes nevertheless continued to wander to her for the remainder of the night. By the end of the first night, I had convinced myself that she was the better asset, that I would be more likely to complete my mission if I courted her instead of trying to make friends with one of her brothers. I doubted my handler would agree, but my mind was made up. I began to frequent the bars that I knew the Glenanne's visited often, watching her, planning my next move. I would introduce myself, I decided, ask her to dance and then as we started courting, I could bring up the subject of work. It seemed easy enough and more enjoyable than making friends with one of her volatile terrorist brothers, and I deluded myself into thinking everything would be fine.

And then it all had changed. When I saw who she was meeting the previous night, I had felt worry gnawing at the pit of my stomach. My instincts told me that something was wrong, that the meeting would not go as she had planned. Over the years, I had come to trust those instincts, for they had kept me alive even in adverse circumstances. And so I had gone outside, telling myself I was just checking on her to make sure she was okay. When I saw the men restraining her, however, I could no longer stand by idly. My training kicked in, and I brought them down effectively without sustaining a single injury. They might have been large, but they were not good at hand-to-hand combat. I was feeling pretty proud of myself afterwards until I noticed her watching me with an odd expression on her face and realized that I had just blown my cover. No engineer would have been able to fight like I had. And so I fed her the first excuse I could come up with, one which she fortunately accepted. Now I just needed to sell my new cover—and convince my handler to help me.

Sighing, I pulled on my running clothes and stepped out of the tiny flat onto the busy streets of Belfast. I ran to a nearby park, circling it three times before returning to my flat only slightly winded. After marching dozens of miles in the Rangers carrying a pack that weighed as much as I did, a ten-mile run no longer bothered me. Once in my flat, I completed my workout regime, still planning my next move. However, despite my attempts to focus, my mind continued to wander, remembering how wonderful it felt to have Fiona's warm body pressed against me the previous night, how warm her hands were in mind, how well we had moved together.

By the time I finished the last crunch, I was fully aroused again. I sighed as I moved toward the tiny bathroom, stripping off my clothes. It had been a long time since I had been unable to control my arousal, ever since my teenage years. But something about the woman I met the night before plagued my mind, causing me to lose focus on the mission. I simply could not afford to do that. A lack of focus was likely to result in my untimely death.

******Note: The next three paragraphs contain a sexually explicit scene. If you don't like that but want to read the rest of the story, skip to the next set of asterices. You shouldn't lose much of the plot.******

Once the water was warm, I stepped under the spray and began to shampoo my hair. As I scrubbed my body as well, images flew unbidden into my mind, activating my imagination. Suddenly, it was not my hands running over my slick skin—it was Fiona's hands caressing my body, her smooth palms running over its surface. I could not suppress the moan which dropped from my lips. In the back of my mind, I knew this was getting out of control, but I could not stop it. No woman had ever affected me quite so profoundly, even Samantha whom I had agreed to marry four months before. I knew that should be my first clue to back away, to change tactics while I still had a chance, but I could not bring myself to do it.

My hand closed over my partially erect member, beginning to stroke it languidly. Only it was not my hand in my mind. It was Fiona's hand running over the smooth skin, Fiona's hand bringing me to full arousal. Her hands were softer than mine, that much I had learned while holding them the previous day, but there was a power in them I had not expected. I felt that power now, gripping me tighter, squeezing just the tip of the erection before smoothing its way down to the base. I felt my balls tightening, indicating that I was getting closer, and my hand increased its speed. As I continued to stroke, I wondered what Fiona's lips might feel like, if she would suck just the tip of me into her mouth or take me in fully until I touched the back of her throat.

Without warning, a white-hot streak of pleasure shot through me, and I found myself shouting as I orgasmed. I continued to stroke myself, letting the water wash away the ejaculate as the waves of pleasure subsided. When I was finally able to think again, I slowly opened my eyes. The water had not even run cold yet. It was one of the fastest ejaculations I had had since high school, and it was not hard to figure out why. But at least it had the added bonus of relaxing me.

*********Explicit scene over***********

After dressing, I pulled a burner phone from beneath my lumpy mattress and called the number I had memorized before the mission. My handler, a man named Dan Siebels, picked up before the first ring had even finished. "It took you long enough, Michael," he remarked. "I hope you realize this isn't a holiday." Dan and I had trained together, and we had become fast friends despite our differences. Those same differences had led us in opposite directions after training. Desperate to stay as far away from my dysfunctional family as possible, I had taken the first post offered overseas. However, Dan, who was just starting a family of his own, remained stateside. Realizing that we worked well together, the agency eventually appointed him as my handler, an arrangement that suited our interests and talents well.

"You know me, Dan. I like the calculated approach."

"Well, as long as you get results, I can't complain. Did you make contact with one of the brothers?"

"The sister actually."

"Sister? Michael, your mission was to make friends with a brother and use that to gain access, not shack up with the only living sister of Patrick Glenanne. That's likely to get you shot."

"She was the easier target, Dan. The brothers are too suspicious. An out-of-towner who just happens to be perfect for a recent job opening would raise too many red flags."

"And a man hitting on Fiona Glenanne won't?"

"Trust me, Dan, she's the type of woman who's used to getting hit on."

"And you think you can pull this off? I mean, you've always had that tall, dark, and mysterious thing the ladies love, but romance isn't exactly your strong suit."

"I'll be fine. We already have a second date tonight." Before I had left the pub the previous night, I had convinced Fiona to meet me at a local restaurant for dinner. She had been a bit reluctant at first, but she had eventually agreed. I was picking her up at 6:00.

"A second date? So you've already had one?"

"We danced a bit last night. I saved her life, so she owes me. Which reminds me, I need to change my cover a bit. Put me in the Irish army."

"The Irish. . . Michael, you do realize that no European government knows you are there right now, and if they did, they would probably be shooting at your ass. How the hell do you expect me to get you listed as in the Irish army?"

"I don't need to be on active duty. Just honorably discharged. You can pick the timelines."

"That's not the point, Michael. The point is-"

"The point is that I had to take down three armed men last night in order to prevent my asset from being killed, and she's smart enough to realize that's not something an engineer can do. If I didn't say something else, my cover would have been blown."

Dan let out a long breath. "Fine. But no more little surprises, Michael. I'm not sure my blood pressure can handle them." The phone call ended with a click. Mission one accomplished.

I spent the rest of the day working on mission two—doing some research on the Irish army, learning everything I could about their training and fighting skills. One of the first things I learned was that very few men in the army would have been able to do what I had done the previous night. I would have to dial it back a bit, show some proficiency with hand-to-hand combat and weapons but not to the full extent unless it was life or death. Hopefully, Fiona would chalk up the previous night to adrenaline and not ask too many questions.

Without a partner, I couldn't try any actual sparring, but I had set up a makeshift punching bag in my room when I moved in, and I used that to practice some of the moves I read about in the multitude of books I had picked up from a used bookstore down the street. I was not a fan of a couple of them, for they had too much motion, so much that an opponent could get in two strikes to every one of mine. I filed those away for any time I needed to throw a fight.

By the time I showered again to prepare for my date, I was feeling a bit more prepared to be an Irish ex-military man. I stashed the books in my punching bag and stepped out to my car, guiding it to the address Fiona had provided the previous night. I found her standing outside the apartment building, watching the street warily. Smiling, I pulled up to the curve. "Seems like ya might be needin' a ride."

"McBride," she greeted, stepping to the car.

"Michael," I told her. It would be easier if she used my real name. I was more likely to respond. Of course, if I were being honest with myself, it was not all about tactical awareness. I also liked hearing her say my name. It made me forget for a moment that I was lying to her.

"Michael," she agreed. "Where'r ya takin' me?"

"A place I found a couple o'blocks over. I heard they had some o'the best food and cocktails this side o'Belfast and at reasonable prices, too."

"Reasonable prices?"

"Well, I am unemployed." I grinned at her as I started the car, turning toward the restaurant. In truth, I had a rather sizeable discretionary fund from the CIA, made even more sizeable because I was willing to live in a tiny loft in a seedy part of town. It wasn't so bad, however; at least my loft had running water. I had been stuck in far worse places during my time with the CIA. Besides, the crappy loft and mid-priced dinner would sell my cover better as a man between jobs.

Over dinner, we got to know one another better. Though I usually avoided the subject, I asked about her family, and she told me about her five brothers, three older and two younger. I knew about them already, but I nevertheless asked follow-up questions, knowing she would expect them. Patrick was the oldest, the head of the Glenanne clan since Fiona's father had died nearly two years before. Next came Sean, the unofficial enforcer of the family. Niall was next, the brilliant mind behind many of their operations though he could dish out his fair share of violence if necessary. Following Niall was Fiona and then Seamus just eleven months behind her. Seamus was the wild card, the one Glenanne the CIA had not been able to profile. He was unpredictable, a bit wild, just as likely to shoot up a street corner as to carry some bags of groceries for old ladies. Finally, there was Kieran. As the youngest, he was the one least involved with many of the happenings of clan Glenanne, but after reading his file, I realized there was a reason beyond age as well—Kieran simply did not have the same stomach for violence as his older siblings. Whereas Claire's death had sent Fiona on a mission of revenge, it sent Kieran on a mission to ensure that as few people got hurt as possible. He still loved his brothers and sister and would do anything they asked, but his goal in life was to become a doctor, to help people instead of hurting them. Somewhat surprisingly, Patrick seemed to support him in that goal.

Of course, Fiona did not tell me quite so many details about her brothers. Most of the conversation was filled with tales of their exploits as children. I noticed she carefully avoided mentioning Claire's name, crafting all the tales in such a way that it was impossible to tell if her deceased sister had been present. And once she finished her stories, she asked about me. This time, I stuck to the script, spinning the tale the CIA had put together for me, a tale of a young boy raised by a single mother after his father left with no other close family members. It was close enough to the truth that it was an easy sell, and it was far easier to find a fifty-ish agent on short notice who could play the part of my mother if questioned than to find a whole family.

After we ate, I suggested a walk along the docks, and she accepted. It was not something I typically did, but Dan was right that I was not too good at romance. If I was going to win Fiona's heart, I needed to do something that Michael Westen would not do. Besides, the prospect of a little romance with Fiona scared me far less than with anyone else I had ever dated—not that the list was very long. In fact, the prospect was somewhat intriguing. "So any chance we could do this again sometime?" I questioned as we strolled back toward the car hand in hand.

"We could. But next time, I want t'choose the type of date."

"What're ya thinkin'?" I questioned.

"I'm thinkin' that I'll pick ya up at 10:00 on Thursday night and that ya should bring a gun."

"A gun? So we're not doin' dinner'n a movie then?"

"Ya do know how t'use a gun, right? I noticed ya didn't shoot those men las' night."

"Gun shots would attract attention. I didn't want the cops t'get too interested."

"Fair point. So ya do know how t'use one?"

"I told ya I was in the army. They teach ye t'use guns there."

"Good. So what d'ya say? Are ya interested in a third date?"

"I am." I gave her a wide smile. Mission three accomplished.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 (Fiona)**

Michael was waiting outside his apartment building just as he had promised when I pulled up on Thursday night. I had guessed he would be, for he struck me as a man of his word, but it was nice to see that I was right. I also noted at least two guns on his person. Good. He listened to directions. "Ya live in a dump, d'ya know that?" I questioned as he slid into the car.

"The price was good," he remarked, buckling his seatbelt. He glanced in the back where I had two Barrett M90s lying ready for use. "Are ya goin' t'tell me what we're doin'?" he questioned.

"How're yar sniper skills?" I responded.

"Tis been awhile, but I learned a bit in the army. Why?"

"We're relievin' a British munitions facility o'some of its merchandise. Tis a four man job, three t'make the entrance and one t'hold off the guards."

"And I'm holdin' off the guards."

"Y'are. That okay wit' ya? Ya don't have any problems shootin' those loyalist wankers d'ya?"

I thought I caught a moment of hesitation, but then he gave me a wide smile. "I don't."

We reached the rendezvous point twenty minutes later to find Sean and Seamus already waiting for us, arms crossed over their chests as they leaned against their car. "Ya're late," Sean said as he stepped forward.

"Ya said 10:30, and it's 10:28. I'm not late." I exited the car and rounded on my brother. Behind me, I heard a second door open and knew Michael had stepped out of the car as well. Sean immediately glanced over my shoulder to look at him.

"What the feck, Fiona, who is he?"

"Ye said that we could use a fourth person. He's a fourth person."

"I said that tis too bad Pat needed Niall and Kieran because we could use one o'them. But we don't need a stranger comin' in an' messin' up this job!"

"He's not goin' t'mess it up. He has some experience in the army."

"The army? Well, that's just fierce! I've always wanted a British army man t'help me rob a British munitions factory."

"I was in the Irish army," Michael remarked. "An' I don't much care what yar doin'." Sean glanced back and forth between the pair for a moment. "Ye're ridin' each other, aren't ye? Well, that's just feckin' perfect. I'm so glad ya brought a date to a robbery, Fiona, but-"

Before I could really think about what I was doing, my hand slammed across his cheek so hard that his head jerked to the side. "Watch yar mouth, Sean, or I'll watch it fer ya," I hissed, staring him down. He blinked first. Satisfied, I glanced over to see that Michael had stepped around the car and was standing a few feet away, tensed and ready to intervene. I had to give him credit, however; he had waited to let me try and handle the situation. He was a quick study.

"I'm jes' here for backup. Nothin' more," Michael promised, glancing between my brothers. Seamus watched his older sibling carefully for a cue. After a few seconds of silence, Sean turned and spit out a mouthful of blood.

"Fine. Ya can be backup. But if ya mess this up and we get captured by the feckin' British, it's on yar head." He spat again before spinning on his heel and turning back to the car.

We left Michael on a hilltop that made for a good sniper perch and took the second car as close as we dared to the facility, leaving it just off the road a few hundred meters from the fence. Pulling the guns from the back, we began creeping forward, staying to the shadows as much as possible. "We're in position, Michael," I whispered into my radio when we reached the fence line. "Ya ready?"

"I am." With those words, I heard a shot from the other side of the warehouse. Immediately, the guards began to shout, and a number started running toward the back, away from us. Two more shots sounded, but still no guards fell.

"Jaysus, McBride, I thought Fi said ya could shoot."

"Tis been awhile," Michael remarked. One of the guards dropped on his next shot, but the fifth one went wide. There was a brief pause as he reloaded.

"Next time, check yar boyfriend's credentials 'fore ya bring him on a job," Sean remarked.

I glared at him. "He got the guards away from here, didn't he?" Sean grumbled but did not argue, instead reaching into his pack to pull out a felt blanket. He tossed it over the top of the fence to cover the barbed wire, and we all scrambled up, dropping lightly to the ground. Sean took the lead, gun at the ready, and I followed close behind with Seamus bringing up the rear after removing the blanket. There were two guards at the door, but Sean dealt with them quickly and quietly. As soon as the second crumpled, I stepped forward. Though my brothers were often unwilling to admit it in public, I was the best lock pick in the family, and I was always the one chosen to get through a door when a job needed to be done quickly and quietly. I pulled my pick set from my back pocket and inserted the torque wrench, putting a bit of pressure on it as I began to slowly raise the pins. It took me thirty-three seconds to get inside, certainly not a record but likely better than either Sean or Seamus could have done. They probably realized as much as well, for there were no whispered insults as we stepped into the darkened warehouse.

"Look around. According to my source, there should be some sort of motorized lift we can use t'get the goods," Sean instructed. Seamus and I split up, and I found the motorized forklift first, the keys still dangling from the ignition. Turning it on, I drove it to where Sean stood, taking inventory of the warehouse's contents. "Load up what ye can from this stack," he said, pointing. "If we still have room and time, we can take some o'the smaller stuff. As long as yar man keeps 'em busy with the shootin', we should then be able t'drive this right through the gate." Immediately, we all began to load munitions onto the forklift. As I lifted a crate of ammunition, my radio crackled to life.

"Fiona, somethin's wrong," Michael's voice announced.

"What? The fact that ya couldn't shoot someone standing less than a meter away?" Seamus questioned into his radio, causing Sean to snicker. I glared at them both. I had not known Michael long, but I could tell he was serious.

"What is it, Michael?"

"The guards aren't payin' attention to my shootin' anymore. they're circlin' back around to the front. I think they know ya're in there."

"What are ya talkin' about, McBride?" Sean demanded. "There's no way! We were careful."

"Not careful enough. Lock the front door and start lookin' fer another way out."

"McBride, there's no way I'm lockin' that door. We're perfectly fine in here; we've been plannin' this fer months, and I amn't leavin' all this merchandise sittin' here now that we're inside." Before Sean finished speaking, I was already moving toward the front door. I slid the dead bolt into place and then pushed the metal bar that held it shut into its housing just as shouts announced that Michael was not lying.

"How many of'em are there?" I questioned.

"Too many t'take out wit' a sniper rifle," Michael answered. "And reinforcements just arrived. Do ye see a window or back door or somethin'?"

"We're in a feckin' warehouse, McBride! There isn't a back door," Seamus remarked. "What the devil are ya playin' at anyway?"

"Don't lose the rag, Seamus. Ya're jes' goin' t'get all of ye killed if y'aren't thinkin' clearly," Michael said.

"Easy fer ya t'say when ya're sittin' out there wit'out the entire British army surrounding ya. I can't believe ya feckin' set us up! There's no way reinforcements got here so quickly unless they knew."

"Ye were set up, but not by me," Michael remarked.

"He's right," I defended. "He didn't know where we were goin' 'til I picked him up. There was no time fer a set-up."

"Then who tipped off the feckin' Brits?" Sean demanded, his temper flaring.

"Donnelly," Sean suddenly remarked from us. I turned to my older brother, confused about why he was naming his source. "He was the only other one who knew where we were goin' t'be. An' when we talked the other night, he seemed nervous. Dammit!" Sean slammed his hand against a nearby crate before placing his head against his arm.

"Fiona, what's goin' on in there?" Michael inquired.

"We're jes' talkin' about the wanker who set us up," I remarked.

"Well, unless ye can get him t'call off the forty British soldiers out here, ye should stop talkin' and do some more findin'. Do ye see another way out?"

I glanced around. The warehouse wasn't very large; I could see three walls from where I was standing, and none of them had windows or doors. I nodded to Seamus and then to the back, and he disappeared to check there. He returned a couple seconds later shaking his head. "Nothin'," I told Michael. "At least we have 'em outgunned."

"There's too many. They'll kill ye all."

"Well, I don't see another option, Michael, unless you know how to make a door magically appear."

"Stall the beans, I'm workin' on it."

"So yar fella's a miracle worker, is he?" Sean questioned, stepping up beside me. I shrugged.

"He saved me life once before. Maybe he can again."

Sean glanced over at me from where he stood behind a couple crates, ready to face the soldiers once they made their way through the door. "Now that sounds like a story."

"Aye, tis. If we make it out o'here, I'll tell ya sometime." The door was shaking even more in its hinges as the soldiers assaulted it, and I clicked the safety off my gun, aiming carefully. A noise behind me caused me to glance over my shoulder. It sounded like an engine, and I wondered briefly if I had accidentally left the forklift running. Before I could wonder long, however, a loud crash reverberated around the room, and the sound of the engine became almost deafening. I watched in surprise as a Hummer came barreling through the wall, wood splinters and vinyl siding falling around it like rain. Behind the wheel sat Michael. Gone was the easygoing Irishman I had eaten dinner with just three nights before. His jaw was set, his eyes focused, and his posture perfect. He was back to being the man who had brought down three armed men to save my life. Those two sides of his personality intrigued me, and I wondered which was actually Michael McBride.

"Time t'go," he announced, reaching over to toss open the door.

"McBride? What the feck are ya doin'?"

"Gettin' us all out o'here alive." Another hit to the door propelled it forward, and a flood of men stormed the warehouse. Bullets began flying towards us, and I ducked automatically, getting my head below the dash. Glass rained down around me as the windshield shattered. Michael held out an arm and fired six shots. Only one hit its target.

"Ya should probably hit the shootin' range at some point, McBride," Sean remarked as he dropped two of the men. I raised my gun to shoot as well, but Michael had the car moving, weaving erratically. It was an effective way to avoid gunfire, but it made aiming difficult.

"I'll keep that in mind." The car burst through the back wall again in another, smaller, shower of debris. A second group of soldiers approached, shooting at us. Michael grunted with pain as a crimson stain spread across his shoulder, but he kept the car steady, even managing to shoot back. This time, he dropped three of the men with six shots, likely because they were clustered together.

"We've got a feckin' car full o'em behind us," Seamus announced, reloading his gun. Michael gave a grunt of acknowledgement, throwing the wheel to the side as his foot slammed on the brakes. The car did a complete 180 before heading in the opposite direction.

"What the feck are ya doin, McBride! We can't get out of the fence this way; we need t'get to the gate."

"Could ye let me do the drivin?" Michael questioned, steering us around the warehouse. As we rounded the second corner with our pursuers still gaining on us, he threw his hand out the window again and fired three more rounds.

"What the feck, McBride? Ya're nowhere near the target." Michael did not answer, but his intent soon became clear as one of his bullets hit the nearby propane tank. Instantly, the entire thing burst into flames, sending the pursuing car careening to the side as it attempted to avoid the fireball. I saw a number of soldiers running from it as well, but Michael seemed not to care how effective it was. He had refocused his attention on driving, gaining speed as he approached the gate. A few soldiers tried to stop him, jumping out of the way at the last minute when they realized he was not slowing down. He hit the unlatched gate at nearly forty miles an hour, and it swung open easily without slowing the large vehicle at all. He did not stop until he reached the place where we had left the second car.

"Aren't we goin' back fer the other car?" I questioned. Michael shook his head.

"They passed right by it t'get te the warehouse. It'll be in every system there is in a couple o'hours."

"That was some crazy shite back there, McBride," Seamus remarked.

"It worked," Michael pointed out.

"That it did, but it looks like ya got yarself shot."

He glanced down at his shoulder. "I'll be fine."

I sighed. Men could be such babies sometime. "Don't be an eejit, Michael. Ya're not fine. We'll take ya somewhere ya can get fixed up without questions." I shared a look with my brothers, daring them to object to my plan, but they were uncharacteristically silent. Apparently they also agreed that Michael deserved at least some trust after saving our lives.

"Tis a shame not t'have anything t'show fer this," Seamus remarked as we all slid into the car.

"Ye're all alive. That's somethin'," Michael remarked. He slid the bolt back on his pistol, checking it quickly before tucking it back into his waistband.

"No wonder ya were shootin' so badly. Ya got a feckin' Yankee weapon," Seamus remarked, eyeing the pistol. "What're ya doin' carryin' around an M11 for?"

"I ran out of ammo, so I needed somethin' else. The previous owner didn't need this anymore, so I figured it would do."

"Ran out o'ammo? What kind o'man runs out o'ammo?"

"The kind who wasn't expectin' a shoot out." Michael turned to glare at me, and I shrugged. Once he got to know me better, he would learn to always expect a shootout.

"What was a British soldier doin' carryin' a Yank weapon?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't much care about the political nuances of Great Britain and the US."

Seamus and Sean used the hour-long car ride as an opportunity to grill Michael about his past. He answered all the questions willingly though I could see him growing more and more uncomfortable as the car ride continued and the pain in his shoulder increased. We had taped his undershirt to the wound as a makeshift bandage, but it was still leaking blood slowly, and I knew he needed more medical attention soon.

One of the sentries at the front gate hailed us as we approached, nodding in recognition of Sean and Seamus. His eyes travelled to the back seat where Michael sat, his head tipped back in pain. "He's wit' us," Seamus said, a note of finality in his voice. The other man nodded and waved us through.

"Armed guards," Michael observed through gritted teeth.

"We like our privacy," Sean answered. "Ya're lucky. Most strangers we bring here come wit' bags o'er their heads. I can still arrange it if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary." We drove up the winding road, parking in a large lean-to that acted as a garage. Seamus and Sean exited first, and Sean walked around to the back to help Michael out. I noticed he was leaning heavily on my brother as he walked to the house, obviously not as fine as he claimed to be. I followed close behind as Seamus unloaded the car.

"It's about time ye three showed up," a voice remarked, and I turned to smile at my mother. Though she had recently passed sixty, Birgit Glenanne was not a women you wanted to trifle with. She had held three men at gunpoint until my father could arrive to deal with them, all while seven months pregnant with Sean. It was a story that had been told and exaggerated many times in family lore. Many said it was why Sean was such a good fighter now.

"Sorry, Mam, there was a bit o'a mishap."

"I'll say. Who's this man and why is he bleedin' all over my clean floor?"

"Michael McBride," Michael introduced breathlessly. "A pleasure t'meet you."

"Mam, is Kieran awake? McBride's got a bullet in his shoulder that we need t'remove," Sean said, depositing Michael in a nearby chair.

"Aye, he's awake. I'll get him, and then while he takes care o'this, ye can explain exactly how this bullet wound came t'be." My mother left the kitchen to find Kieran. A few seconds later, a woman about my age walked in, her face creased with worry.

"Sean, where's Seamus?" she questioned.

"He's out back. He'll be in in a moment, Alanna" Sean assured my brother's worried fiancée. She nodded, and her eyes slid from my brother to the man in the chair beside him.

"Who's that?" she questioned. I saw an appreciative gleam in her eyes, and I stepped closer to Michael. I was not sure what caused me to become so possessive, for I had never had a problem before, but the thought of someone else flirting with Michael caused my insides to boil.

"He's Fiona's fella," Sean said. "Michael McBride. Helped us out on the job today and got himself hurt. We're jes' waitin' on Kieran to patch him up."

"I'm here. An' I brought McKenzie as well." Sean's eyes widened at hearing his wife's name.

"Look, Kenz, I can explain-" he began, but she held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.

"Save it. I've had jes' about enough o'yar excuses, Sean Glenanne." She glanced over at me, and I could not stop the next question from leaving my mouth. It was one that always haunted me when on a mission, one that I always needed an answer to as soon as I returned.

"Aodhan?" I whispered.

"Sleepin' upstairs wit' Molly'n Curran. They're havin' a sleepover at Nana's." I nodded, satisfied in Aodhan's safety. He often stayed with McKenzie or Kaitlyn, Patrick's wife, when I was on a job with my brothers though we did have a flat in Belfast. I felt it was safer for him out in the country where most of the rest of my family lived, and I wanted him to be surrounded by family.

"Mammy," a small voice remarked from behind us. Both McKenzie and I turned to see Aodhan standing in the doorway, a stuffed toy clutched in his hands.

"Guess he wasn't as asleep as I thought."

"Aodhan, a stor, what're ya doin' awake?" I asked, holding out my arms. Aodhan immediately tumbled into them, placing his head on my shoulder.

"Heard ya down here," he muttered against my neck.

"I'm here," I assured him. "I'm safe. Now, let's get ya off t'bed." I carried him out of the room, chancing a glace at Michael as we passed. He was staring at me in open-mouthed astonishment, heedless of my brother who was gathering a number of nasty-looking medical supplies to pull a bullet from his shoulder. I sighed. I knew I owed him the truth, and I would have no choice but to tell it now since my secret was out. I just wished I could have gotten to know him a bit better before he went running for the hills like all the other men I knew when they found out about Aodhan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 (Michael)**

I watched as Fiona picked up the small boy who had entered the kitchen and cradled him to her lovingly. It did not escape me that he had called her his mother. That detail had certainly not been in her file, and I began to wonder just what else the CIA might have missed. She caught my eye as she left the kitchen and nodded slightly, a silent promise that she would explain more at a later time. "She didn't tell ya, did she?" Sean asked. I glanced over to see he had a knowing smirk on his face, and I felt a sudden need to defend Fiona and us—whatever we were.

"She did," I told him.

"Ya're a bad liar, McBride. I like that about ya." Sean laughed, slapping me on my good shoulder. The blow still stung, for it caused my body to move in a way it did not want to move. Before I could protest the action, the door opened and Seamus stepped inside.

"Jaysus, ya still haven't gotten that bullet outta him? I could've done it faster."

"Last time ya tried to take a bullet out, I ended up needin' t'give Sean twelve stitches," Kieran said. He reached out, helping me remove my shirt before handing me a pencil. I put it in my mouth without question, biting down. The three Glenanne men watched me approvingly. I decided against telling them that it was not my first experience with field medicine—in fact, the current time would likely be one of the least stressful times I had ever had a bullet taken out of me. I had needed to pull one out of myself at one point while more were still raining down on my position. That had been hell on the nerves.

Kieran brought the knife to my skin and though I knew it would hurt, the searing pain nevertheless had me squeezing my eyes shut as my teeth clenched around the pencil. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him set aside the knife, but I did not have long to breathe before the pain was back, shooting across my back until it felt as if my entire body was on fire. The pencil turned by screams into muffled groans, but it did not lessen the pain. "Y'okay there, McBride?" Sean asked. His tone sounded almost gleeful, and I glared up at him as best as I could given the circumstances.

"Almost there. Ha!" Kieran gave a grunt of triumph, and the pain suddenly lessened to a dull thud. I heard the clatter of metal as he set aside the bullet he had pulled out of me. The sting of alcohol suddenly hit my shoulder, far better than the pressure of the tweezers but still painful in its surprise. However, I knew it was for the best, and I let Kieran finish dressing the wound before he quickly stitched it and bandaged it. His movements were sure and practiced, a fact for which I was grateful. Perhaps I would even escape without adding another scar to my collection.

"Not bad, McBride," Seamus complimented as I spat out the pencil and sat upright in the chair. My shoulder still throbbed, but it was a welcome relief from the earlier pain. I grunted in response. Before they could say anything else, footsteps announced that someone else was joining us, and I looked up to see Fiona and her mother standing in the doorway.

"I think ye two need t'talk," Brigit remarked. "Come on, the rest of ye. Ye can explain exactly what happened tonight that led t'a bullet wound." She motioned the others forward, and her sons quickly exited the room, their wives following. Once they had left, Fiona moved forward, taking the chair beside me. We both sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at the table.

"I s'pose ya have questions," she finally said. She was right; I did have questions, thousands of them in fact. I had so many questions I was not even sure where to begin. I turned to look at her, noting the hint of something I had never heard in her voice before. Her jaw was set, her eyes downcast, her posture rigid. I realized in that moment that she was afraid. And though I had not known her long, I knew that was an unfamiliar feeling for her. With that realization, the warring questions left me. Obviously, someone had hurt her in the past, hurt her badly enough that the normally unflappable woman was still scared. I resolved that I would do everything in my power not to increase that pain, and I knew that an interrogation would run counter to that effort.

"How old is he?" I finally asked. She turned to face me, her mouth falling slightly open in surprise. I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Three. He'll be five in March."

"And his name's Aodhan?"

She nodded. "Little fire. It seemed appropriate. He's. . . quite like me sometimes."

"His father?"

"Not around. Never has been. Left me when he found out I was havin' a baby and wanted t'keep it."

"I'm sorry, Fiona."

She waved me off. "Tis fine. It was a long time ago. We've done jes' fine wit'out him." Silence descended again. "Ya can say whatever ya want, ya know. I won't be offended if ya run. Won't be t'first time and probably not t'last. I know I'm a scrubber."

"I didn't say that," I objected immediately. "And I'm not leavin'. I'm just. . . thinkin'."

She sighed, placing both hands on the table to push herself out of her chair. "Well, when yar done thinkin', let me know, and I'll drive ya home."

"Fiona, wait." I stopped her by putting a hand on her wrist. "Yar not given me a chance t'process any of this. It's a shock, sure, but it doesn't mean I never want to see ya again. I want t'get t'know ye. Both of ye." She stared at me a moment, judging the sincerity of my words. She was obviously shocked by my statement, and I was honestly as well, having very little experience with children. In fact, I generally tried to avoid spending time with children, but now I was volunteering to do just that. Surprisingly, however, I was not dreading the prospect as much as I would have expected to just minutes before.

"Ya're serious," she eventually surmised, dropping back to the chair.

"I am." She contemplated me for a moment longer.

"How d'ya feel about the park?"

"The park?"

"Tis Aodhan's favorite place. I promised t'take him t'the one on Second Ave tomorrow. If ya want, ya can join us. But ya don't have to."

"I will," I agreed.

The next morning, I found myself in a situation which none of my training had prepared me for. The initial part of the day had gone well enough—Fiona had introduce me to Aodhan as "Mammy's friend," and he had contemplated me for a moment before shaking my hand solemnly. I had thought I would need to talk with him, and I had spent the entire morning scouring my brain for topics suitable for a young child. I had a couple ready now, but before I could say anything, he had turned and run for the slide. I turned to Fiona in surprise, and she shrugged. "He's four," she said as if it explained everything. I decided it would be best not to tell her that that meant nothing to me.

We settled on a bench, keeping an eye on him while we talked about more adult topics. I was beginning to think that being around a child was not so bad—it seemed just like babysitting diplomats except that the problems tended more toward falling off the slide instead of adultery. I would take the slide any day.

That all changed about thirty minutes after we first arrived at the park. I caught sight of Aodhan walking toward us and thought he was likely tired and wanted to go home. I, too, was on board with that plan, for I did not much like parks. However, he quickly dispelled that illusion. "Mick-ll," he said, pronouncing my name as if it had one syllable and rhymed with "pickle." I had not corrected him earlier, figuring that most young children had trouble with pronunciation, but after half an hour being compared to a vinegary vegetable every time he wanted us to see him do something, I was regretting my decision. "Come swing!" I eyed the swings in question warily. They were much too small for me; I was likely to break one if I attempted to sit on it.

"Aodhan, I don't think those are meant for adults," I explained, trying to be gentle. He giggled.

"No, silly, swing Aodhan!" At a loss, I turned to Fiona for help.

"He wants ya t'push him on the swings," she explained. My eyes went wide at the prospect.

"Fiona, I weren't kiddin' 'bout havin' no experience wit' children. I'm likely t'hurt him. 'Sides, I only have one good arm." I held up the uninjured limb for inspection.

She rolled her eyes at me. "Ya aren't goin' t'hurt him or yerself. Jes' make sure he holds on tight and then give him a few good pushes with yar good arm. It'll be fine."

"Why don't ya do it?" I suggested.

"No, Mick-ll push!" Aodhan protested, reaching out and grabbing one of my hands. Fortunately, it was the hand on my uninjured side, and he was too small to pull very hard. With a last pleading glance at Fiona, I rose to my feet and followed the boy to the swings. He hopped into the one on the left and wrapped his tiny hands around the chains that held the swing aloft. I glanced back at Fiona who simply smiled at me and gave a small wave. With a nervous swallow, I looked back at the boy in front of me. He appeared to be sitting on the very edge of the swing, leaning forward. I did not know much about swinging children but something told me that having his weight unbalanced as it currently was could be a recipe for disaster.

"Aodhan, ya have t'scoot back," I told him. Obediently, he wriggled his small body until he had the opposite problem—his butt was hanging over the back of the swing, tipping it towards me. "No, not that far back. In the middle." He wriggled again without truly moving before casting a pleading glance over his shoulder.

"Help?" he requested. I glanced at my arm in a sling and then at his small body. There did not seem to be any way of adjusting his position one-handed.

"I can't. I'm hurt, remember?" I told him.

"I f'got!" he exclaimed. I winced at the volume. Fortunately, he seemed to realize I wouldn't be able to help him and adjusted himself to a satisfactory position. Once he had, silence descended over us.

"Ya can swing now," I finally told him.

"No, silly, ya have t'push me!" he exclaimed.

"Right." I stepped forward again, contemplating how best to achieve his request given my injury. I guessed I would have to push on his back, but that could unseat him again, perhaps enough to throw him off the swing. Maybe pulling on the chains would be better. "Hold on tight," I instructed as I gripped one chain. I watched his small fingers curl tighter around the chains, and I pulled the swing back and let it loose. Immediately, he gave a whoop of laughter. I noticed he did not slide at all and felt a momentary sense of accomplishment. Maybe swinging wasn't so hard after all.

Of course, as the swing began to slow, I realized the flaw in my plan. It was easy enough to grab the chains when the swing was still, but if I attempted to grab them while it was moving, it would stop the movement and likely wrench my injured shoulder, the exact opposite of what I wanted. It seemed I would have to push him after all. As he came back towards me, I reached out and tentatively placed my hand on his back, propelling him forward with a gentle push. He giggled as he moved higher, increasing my confidence. The next time, I pushed slightly harder, and he swung even higher. His giggles had turned into full-blown laughter by that point, and I felt that I must have been doing something right.

I managed to push him for nearly twenty minutes without having him once fall off the swing. By the end of it, my uninjured arm was quite sore, and I was grateful when he declared that he wanted to play in the sandbox. My joy was short-lived, however, for he declared that I would be playing with him in a tone that left no room for argument. I thought about arguing anyway, for sitting down in a bunch of sand which was likely to make it into every crevice of my body was not my idea of a good time, but one look at his pleading face had me agreeing. I tried not to grimace as I maneuvered myself carefully onto the edge of the sandbox, trying to keep as much of my body away from the ubiquitous substance as I could. The only small comfort was that I was not wearing one of my nice suits. I glanced over at Fiona to see if I could convince her to come to my rescue, but she simply smiled and winked at me. Two could play at that game. Turning back, I opened my mouth to suggest that Aodhan get his mammy involved in the sand games when I suddenly found myself with a lap full of sand. Sputtering, I jumped to my feet, quickly brushing off the tiny particles as I glared at the giggling four-year-old. "What th. . . was that fer?" I demanded.

"Ya needed sand t'play," he pointed out logically.

"I didn't need it on me pants," I told him angrily. The smile slipped from his face, and his lower lip jutted out. Immediately, I began to backpedal. I certainly had not intended to make the boy cry, and I had a feeling Fiona would not be happy if she learned that I had. "Aodhan, I'll play in the sandbox wit' ya, but we need t'keep the sand in the box. Okay?" He considered for a moment before nodding, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis one averted.

We spent over an hour playing in the sand. I brought over a water bottle so that we could mold it better, and we created a variety of sculptures that certainly would not be winning any contests but seemed to make Aodhan happy. After the sandbox, he wanted to swing again, but that only lasted for ten minutes before he asked to play football. Despite my attempts to immerse myself in the culture, it still took me by surprise when he first pulled the black and white checkered ball from the bag beside his mother's feet, but I overcame my surprise and joined him and Fiona in kicking the ball back and forth. Soccer had never been my sport of choice, but I was passable, mostly due to years of honing my coordination. After soccer came a number of attempts at the monkey bars—which I fortunately was able to forgo given my injury—followed by an extended session on the slides that he declared he could do on his own. As he climbed into the play structure to start down the slides, I collapsed next to Fiona on the bench. "The lad has too much energy," I told her. She simply smiled coyly.

Despite my exhaustion, I was reluctant to leave the pair after we finished at the park, and I offered to cook dinner for them at Fiona's apartment. She warned me that she did not have much food, so we stopped at the market to pick up some ingredients before going to her apartment. I cooked beef stroganoff, figuring it should be relatively kid-friendly, and my instincts proved correct when Aodhan ate two full helpings. Fiona kicked us out of the kitchen after we finished, declaring that she would clean up since I cooked. We wandered together to the small living room, and I took a seat on the sofa, weary after the long day. I had thought initially that Aodhan would do the same, but the food seemed to revive him. He proceeded to empty out a toy box in the corner, bringing each item to me for inspection as he gave me its backstory. I memorized what I could of his tales, knowing he would want me to know later, but my tired brain was struggling to stay awake, much less memorize the details of a child's toy. Eventually, he pulled out a book, placing it in my lap before climbing onto the couch beside me with a stuffed dog. Deciding that I would rather read than be interrogated about a toy soldier's life history, I opened to the first page. Aodhan moved closer to me, snuggling against my uninjured side. He poked at my arm for a moment before I finally raised it, allowing him to curl up with his head pillowed on my leg. Satisfied with that position, he finally settled as I continued reading. It took only three pages before he was fast asleep, and I pulled a nearby blanket over his small body, hoping to keep him that way.

Soft footsteps behind me announced that Fiona hand entered the room, and I turned my head to watch her approach. "He jes' fell asleep like this," I explained. "It is okay?"

"Tis fine. I'll take him t'his bed in a moment. I jes' want t'pick up these toys before one of us trips over them and hurts ourselves."

"Sorry, Fiona, he wanted t'show 'em t'me, and I couldn't-"

"Tis not yar fault, Michael. I know how messy he is. Besides, I owe ya a huge favor. Looks like ya wore him out."

"He wore me out, too." Fiona smiled, tossing a few toys in the box. "How d'ya do it every day?"

"Ye learn. Today was somewhat unusual anyway. He was especially excited t'have someone new t'play wit', so he was more energetic than usual." She finished packing away the toys and then moved to the couch. Carefully, she lifted her son into her arms and carried him into the next room. Much to my surprise, I found that I missed the warmth of his small body pressed against mine. That was something I had not expected, and I realized I would have to be careful about growing too attached. I tipped my head back, letting my eyes slide shut, and I did not recall much else until I felt the couch dip down beside me a few minutes later. "Ya should probably go home before ya fall asleep."

"I should," I agreed, slowly opening my eyes and turning my head to look at her.

"Thank ya," she told me.

"Fer what?"

"Ya're the first person outside of me immediate family who's spent so much time wit' Aodhan. Even his own father has never seen him. Tis nice t'see him so excited."

"Twas. . . fun." She snorted at the hesitation in my tone. "We should do it again sometime," I continued, attempting to sound more confident.

"We should. We also need to start working on your shooting," she added.

"I don't know that I'm up fer much shootin' jes' yet."

"Not now," she agreed. "But in a coupla weeks when ya're healed." I opened my mouth to protest, ready to point out that I had scored a 93 percent from 600 meters at Camp Rhino, but my tired brain eventually caught up to me, and I held my tongue. The Irish army did not have quite the extensive sniper training that Ranger school had.

"I s'pose I could do that. Do ya have a place in mind?"

"We got a range set up at the farm. We'll use that.

"That sounds good." I gave her a small smile before placing my hands beside me to push myself off the couch. She stopped me with a hand on my arm, and I turned to her, cocking my head to the side in confusion. She leaned forward, and I paused, moving my head as well. Our lips met in a sensual kiss, and I rapidly realized that though I may have had plenty of experience kissing women, kissing Fiona Glenanne was fundamentally different. Her lips were soft, but there was a power in her kiss, the same power I felt in her hands and saw in her eyes. Unlike other woman I had kissed, she was not content to let me take the lead. Instead, the kiss became a game of give and take with one of us pushing slightly forward only to have the other return the pressure with equal force. After a few seconds, I pulled away, my breathing a bit labored. She gave a coy smile, and I could not help but lean forward again. The second meeting of our lips was more forceful and passionate, and I realized that I was rapidly getting in over my head, something that would sure upset my training officer if he knew. But at the moment, I did not care.

At long last, I pulled away. "See ya tomorrow?" I said.

"You will," she confirmed. With that, I stood and left, suddenly feeling much less tired.

After an abbreviated workout routine the next morning, I called Dan, knowing he would be upset if I did not check in. "Michael. I see you've been a busy boy."

"No one was hurt," I pointed out. "And we didn't even steal the weapons."

"Nevertheless, blowing up a munitions storage facility isn't going to make you any friends at MI6. What were you thinking?"

"I needed to maintain cover."

"Did you make contact with Dougherty yet?"

"Not yet, but I'm close."

"Close doesn't count except in horseshoes and hand grenades, Michael. I need results or the upper management is going to replace you with an agent who isn't distracted by a pretty girl."

"Dan, just give me time. Let me do this my way. You know that tends to work out better."

He paused for a moment before sighing. "Fine. But if you don't have anything for me soon, I'm pulling the plug." I agreed, and he hung up without saying goodbye. I understood why he was angry; if the circumstances were reversed, I likely would have been upset as well. But every time I tried to consider that, every logical thought about why I should not let myself get too close seemed to be overridden by an overwhelming desire to get to know Fiona better.

Since the bullet had only hit soft tissue, my wound healed quickly, and in two weeks, Fiona declared that I was ready to shoot. I agreed readily, for I had been growing a bit restless as I healed. Though I could still do most tasks, the wound had definitely limited my ability for more vigorous activity, and it had been far too long since I held a gun in my hand. We agreed to meet the following morning to drive out to the farm together, and Fiona showed up outside my apartment right at 10:00 .As I slid into the car, a small voice greeted me from the backseat. "Mick-ll!" Aodhan squealed happily. I glanced back in surprise.

"Ya're teachin' him t'shoot?" I asked Fiona.

She glared at me. "What kind o'mother d'ya take me fer? He's only four. I take him along t'help carry things or reset targets. He knows he can't touch a loaded gun 'til he's eight. He needs to learn respect fer them first. Isn't that right, a stor?" She glanced in the rearview mirror, and the small child nodded in agreement. I suppose I should have expected as much from Fiona.

We reached the farm about an hour later, and Fiona followed the winding road past the garage we had parked in before. It took us up a gently sloping hill to a large meadow. She pulled off when it ended abruptly, parking on the grass. "C'mon. We have t'walk from here, but it isn't far." She opened the trunk of the car and extracted two sniper rifles as well as a number of boxes of ammunition. Aodhan happily took the ammunition from her hands, and she passed one of the rifles to me before slamming the trunk shut again. She led the way up another hill, and when we reached the top, I glanced around, noting the targets immediately. The closest was about 50 meters away, an easy shot that I could likely take blindfolded if I set up properly. The farthest looked to be about 500 meters away with others spaced evenly between them. I had to admit, it was a perfect spot for target practice; the line of sight to the targets was excellent, and more hills backed them up which would likely prevent stray bullets from reaching anything unwanted. "Now, I assume ya have some basic training," Fiona remarked, setting up her gun on a nearby picnic table with surprising ease.

"I do," I confirmed, demonstrating by perching on the second table. She nodded approvingly.

"We'll start ya off small. Closest target's fifty meters. Think ya can hit it?"

"I can try," I said, sighting the target. At the last moment, I pulled slightly to the right, sending my bullet straight through the side of the person-shaped target. Fiona sighed.

"Yar too tense. Loosen up a bit," she suggested. I tried again, letting my bullet move a bit closer to the center mass of the target. "Good. Now again. Focus on the target'n pull the trigger on your exhale." The irony of the situation was not lost on me. Here I was, a Ranger-trained sniper, arguably one of the best shots in the US military, taking lessons from a woman who had likely learned from IRA guerillas. I wondered what my captain would say if he saw me now.

I allowed my third bullet to hit within the bullseye drawn on the target. "Good. See, it's all about relaxin' and breathin', lettin' yarself feel where the bullet's goin'. 'Fore ya know it, we'll have ya shootin' down filthy loyalists from a lot further than ya were a coupla weeks ago." I decided not to point out that it was actually far harder to shoot and injure someone just enough that they did not come after one's team but not enough to seriously injure that person than to actually kill a person. Instead, I focused my efforts on trying to actually improve my sniper skills just in case I needed them fully in a future job. It had been a couple months since I had shot a target further than about 200 meters, and the Pegame Hecate II was an unfamiliar weapon, heavier than others I had used before. Still, I was never one to back down from a challenge, so I devised a new game. On my next shot, I sighted a tree about two hundred meters behind the target and picked a leaf. Three seconds later, the leaf disappeared from sight as a .50 caliber round went through it. Fiona gave a tut of disapproval, for I had not come close to the target. However, she did not say anything except to encourage me to try again. I did, picking a spot in the outermost ring of the target. Again, my shot was true, cutting a hole through the paper into the straw bale behind it just as I had expected.

We spent nearly five hours shooting with me strategically growing "better" as the day continued. Surprisingly, Aodhan did not even complain once, content to play with the toys Fiona had brought along and fetch extra ammunition or other items from the car as we needed them. We ate lunch together on one of the benches we had been using as a perch with Fiona praising me on my improvement. I thanked her, making a mental note that perhaps I was moving too quickly under her tutelage. I would have to dial back my skills a bit.

After we finished target practice, Fiona set Aodhan up with an unloaded pistol, helping him to disassemble and reassemble it before showing him how to properly aim. They repeated the exercise with one of the rifles, and I watched, fascinated, as the small boy deftly put the deadly weapon together. Despite my limited child-rearing experience, I guessed that assembling guns was not something a mother typically taught to her child, but it seemed to work well for Aodhan and Fiona.

Afterwards, we drove back to Belfast, and I treated them both to dinner before we headed for Fiona's apartment. When we entered, she suggested I watch some television in the living room while she put Aodhan to bed. I settled on the couch in the living room, flipping through channels before finding a local news station. On operations, I attempted to watch the news as much as I could, using it to further immerse myself in the local culture so that I could better sell my cover. However, I had only been watching for about twenty minutes when I heard Fiona's footsteps behind me. I turned, confused. "Aodhan asked fer ya t'help read his story," she said, her puzzled expression mirroring mine. My eyes grew wide at the unexpected request.

"Mebbe ya should do that," I suggested.

"He's very insistent." Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to refuse the request given its vehemence, I flipped off the television and stood, following her slowly back into the room. I had entered uncharted territory. While I had read the boy a story once before, I had done so because his mother was unavailable at the time, and it seemed the quickest way to settle him. Now, Fiona was perfectly capable of reading the story, but he had nevertheless requested my presence as well. Though I was no expert in child psychology, I realized that he was growing attached, and I was beginning to suspect that as much as I tried to deny it, even to myself, I was as well.

Aodhan had picked out two books, and he insisted that Fiona read the first and me the second. We exchanged a glance with each other but did as he asked, Fiona perched on the edge of his small bed and I in the lone chair in the room. By the time I had finished the second story, Aodhan was fast asleep, and I quietly closed the book and backed out of the room so Fiona could finish her nighttime ritual without my presence. She joined me in the living room a couple minutes later. "Thank ya fer agreein' t'do that," she said as she sat beside me.

"No problem," I told her, keeping my voice even.

"Ya want something t'drink? I have some tea, o'course, and wine or whiskey if ya want something stronger."

"I'm fine," I told her. I preferred my tea cold, and I knew that was not what she was offering.

"Ya okay? Ya seem preoccupied."

The question gave me the opening I needed to bring myself back on track. I had to refocus on the mission, for thousands of innocent lives were potentially at stake if the arms deals continued. My growing relationship with Fiona and her son could not take precedence over those no matter what my heart was saying. Drawing on my training, I smoothly redirected the conversation in a direction that I hoped would lead to a more successful mission. "I'm jes' worried."

"'Bout what?"

"Money. Work. I still haven't found a job, and I've been in Belfast almost two months. Don't know how much longer I can last wit'out some sort of paycheck."

"I could give ya somethin', help ya out for now-"

I waved her off. "Ya got Aodhan t'think of. Ya should be usin' yar money fer him. I don't need it. What I need is a job." She paused for a moment, and I waited, hoping she took the bait.

"I may know of somethin'," she finally remarked. I looked at her expectantly. "We've got a job comin' up, a pretty big one. There's seven o'us so far, me four oldest brothers, me, and a couple other close associates, but tis a big job. We could use another man."

It was not exactly the offer I was expecting, but I realized immediately that it was a definite possibility one of the close associates was Dougherty. If that were the case, I would be much closer to him on the job Fiona described rather than a job working at the factory. Plus Fiona's offer fit a bit better into my skill set—I had studied up on engineering before coming to Ireland so I would know the basics, but I doubted my knowledge would pass close scrutiny. "I could be another man."

"Good. We're meetin' t'discuss details next Wednesday night. Meet at the Salty Dog Pub. 9:00."

"I'll be there," I promised. Perhaps my mission could be a success both personally and professionally after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 (Fiona)**

I brushed a tendril of hair out of my eyes before hefting the water bucket a few feet in the air and frog marching it to the nearby pen. With a grunt of effort, I tipped it into the trough, flinching as the cold water hit the exposed skin of my wrist where my sleeve had pulled back. Normally, I did not mind farm chores. I had been helping out with my family's farm since I could first lift a bucket, Early on in my life, my parents had come up with a brilliant method to split up chores. Since they had seven children and there were seven days of the week, they had assigned us each a day. Mine was Wednesday. Over time, we grew up, married, and started families of our own, but we nevertheless continued that tradition, often recruiting children and significant others to help. Even after Claire died, Pat had simply taken over her day, declaring that it would turn into Braden's once his eldest son was old enough. None of us argued, for it seemed reasonable.

Normally, I enjoyed the work. It was comforting in its familiarity and simplicity, and it provided a pleasant break from some of the more dangerous activities in which I engaged. On the current day, however, I continued to mentally run down the list of tasks I had left, hoping to finish them as soon as possible. I had some inkling of why I was distracted as well—a man named Michael McBride. Over the past three weeks, we had spent virtually every day together, and I was growing quite comfortable in his presence. Aodhan, too, seemed to love having him around. Though he had obviously been wary of the small boy at first, he had gradually opened up, and just the previous night had offered to read Aodhan a bedtime story without any prompting from the four-year-old. I knew that I was getting too close, that I should slow down before things got complicated, but I could not bring myself to do so. Michael seemed perfect—he had a decent tactical awareness, good hand-to-hand combat skills, a working knowledge of firearms, and, most importantly, he accepted my son. Sometimes, I wondered if he was _too_ perfect, but I tried not to dwell on that thought too long. My father had told me long before that if I looked too hard at a good thing, I would inevitably see cracks. I had not often heeded that advice, but I decided it was time to try.

The other aspect of my relationship that gave me pause was the fact that we had not yet slept together; in fact, Michael had not even hinted at it. I was no stranger to relationships; before falling pregnant, I had a string of short dalliances, one of which led to Aodhan. After my son's birth, I had settled somewhat, putting him as my top priority, but I had still developed a few relationships. And in each one of those, it had taken less than a week for my partner to begin suggesting we graduate to more intimate activities. I wondered why Michael had not.

Aodhan's voice interrupted me before I could wonder long. "Mammy, I got the eggs! Nana said t'as ya if I should do anything else!" He came running over, a bucket swinging wildly from his hand. I stopped its forward motion when he ground to a halt in front of me.

"Ya can come help me feed the chickens now," I told him. He seemed happy with that task, and I let my focus on my son distract me from my thoughts of the mysterious Michael McBride.

I left Aodhan at his grandmother's house for a sleepover that night while I made my way back to Belfast. I entered the dingy, republican-friendly pub about forty-five minutes before the scheduled meeting time. My eyes swept the other patrons, immediately settling on Michael who was nursing a pint in the corner. A few others were eyeing him suspiciously, and I was not too surprised. The IRA did not appreciate outsiders, and he definitely qualified as an outsider. Of course, I could have none of that. If we were going to stay together, the other republicans needed to accept him, for I suspected he would become a more permanent figure in pubs such as the current one.

With that thought in mind, I made my way to where he was sitting and insinuated myself between him and the bar. I felt the eyes of the rest of the patrons on me as I placed both my arms around his neck and leaned forward, kissing him soundly. He reacted almost instantly, dropping his hands from the pint to my hips so he could pull me closer. We kissed languidly for a few seconds, heedless of the public location or the fact that news of the kiss was likely to travel back to my brothers who would be less than pleased to hear I was making out with an outsider in a republican bar. Eventually, he pulled away and rested his head on mine. "That's a helluva greetin'," he remarked with a roguish smile.

"Seemed like ya could use it."

"So ya noticed my fan club, didya?"

"I half-expected as much. No matter. They'll get used t'ya bein' around eventually."

"So I'm t'be around more often then?"

"If ya're on board wit' that."

"I think I can handle it." He smiled, kissing me once more before shifting slightly so that I could perch on his leg with one of his arms wrapped around me. I caught the bartender's eye and held up a finger for a pint of my own. He returned with it a minute later. After setting it in front of me, he paused, glancing between Michael and me. I was not too surprised by his interest, for Brian had been a good friend of my father's, and I considered him a surrogate uncle.

"So this is the new fella I've been hearin' 'bout?" he questioned, glancing at Michael. I rolled my eyes at his blatant attempt to pry into my life.

"Michael McBride," Michael introduced, holding out his free hand. Brian took it after only a moment's hesitation, shaking it firmly.

"So ya're Irish then. Rumor had it Fiona here was shackin' up wit' and Englishman."

"I hope ya know me better than that, Brian," I told him, raising my eyebrows.

"I do. I told 'em it couldn't be true, that you'd sooner shoot him than bed him." He chuckled, and Michael joined in briefly. I could not help but notice that Michael's laugh seemed forced. "I s'pose I don't have t'tell ya t'take care of her," Brian said, turning back to Michael.

"I think she does a good job takin' care of herself," Michael countered.

"Fair enough," Brian conceded. Another patron called him over, and he nodded at us before leaving to serve his other customers. Michael had resumed his pensive mood, staring into his drink.

"What're ya thinkin' 'bout?" I questioned.

"Tonight. Wonderin' what ya have planned for me."

"Nothin' too bad, I promise. But ya should drink up. Four o'me brothers will be there." A good deal of color drained from Michael's face, and he picked up his pint and took a large swill.

Brian had an office of sorts in the back of the pub that he let us use when needed, and we gathered there at the appointed time, trickling into the room one at a time to avoid suspicion. Pat was the last to arrive, and he glanced around the room, his expression turning stormy when he saw Michael. "Fi, a word," he told me, his eyes narrowed. I stuck my chin out in defiance.

"Whatever ya want t'say t'me, ya can say in front o'Michael."

"He did save our lives, Pat," Sean reminded his older brother. "Even if he is a lousy shot, he seems t'have other talents that might come in handy."

"And his shootin's improvin'," I pointed out.

"I can speak fer meself, ya know," Michael grumbled.

"Well, speak then," Pat instructed.

"Look, I know ya don't trust me, and I understand. I'm still new here, unproven. But I can't ever prove meself if ye don't give me a chance. Jes' put me someplace where I won't get in your way and might be helpful, and I'll show ya jes' what I can do. Then ya can decide if ya want my help in the future."

"Sounds reasonable, Pat," Sean said. Seamus nodded as well, and I could see Pat beginning to wave from his position. Silence fell over the room for a few seconds as he contemplated the request.

"Fine," Pat finally agreed. "Ye'll be on watch duty with Kevin and Seamus," he said, nodding at the two other men who murmured their assent. "Ye three are to watch fer any unexpected guests while we're inside and keep them from getting near the warehouse. Sean, Niall, ye two are goin' t'go around the back and deal with the two guards there. Fi and I will go through the front. Finn, ya're on transport. Think ya can find us somethin' that'll hold a couple tons o'guns wit'out arousing suspicions?"

"I can do that," Dougherty promised. Beside me, I felt Michael shift slightly, and I glanced over to see he was watching Dougherty carefully. I realized that his carefree, ebullient side had slipped away, replaced by the brooding, almost dangerous side I had caught glimpses of before. It was an interesting dichotomy, almost like dating two men which simply made him all the more intriguing.

"I can get ye a car if ye want," Michael offered. I turned to him, surprised. I had not realized that he knew how to boost cars, but I suppose there was a good deal I did not know about him.

"Ya're on guard duty, McBride. Finn can get the car."

"Trust me, I'm the best car guy around. Ya don't want this second-rate wannabe, d'ya?" He nodded to Dougherty who bristled at the implication. I wondered what Michael was doing. Surely he realized that comments such as that would only lead to a fight with Dougherty, something most tried to avoid. Though Dougherty was not the biggest man around, everyone knew he fought dirty. Many an opponent had fallen to his knife.

"I'd like ya t'saythat t'me face," Dougherty challenged, turning to Michael.

"Say what? That ya're a second-rate wannabe?" Michael's eyes were challenging, but there was a cool calculation in them as well, a glint that told me his moves were not an act of stupidity but carefully planned. The purpose eluded me however.

"That's it!" Dougherty lunged forward, grabbing Michael by his jacket. Michael immediately shoved him back, and a short wrestling match ensued, only ending when Pat stepped between them

"Enough!" he shouted. Both retreated back, recognizing the command in his voice. I noticed that Dougherty was sporting a cut down his cheek and limping slightly as if he had a broken rib or two. Michael was holding a hand up to nose which was streaming blood. "If ye two can't stop fightin', neither of ye is goin' on this mission. Now, Finn is our car guy for this job. McBride, ya take lookout. If ya want t'do somethin' else in the future, let me know in advance, and mebbe we can work somethin' out. Understood?" Both nodded, sufficiently cowed. "Good. Go clean yarself up, McBride, 'fore you bleed all over me blueprints." With a final glare at Dougherty, Michael slipped out of the room. Pat spread the blueprints of the facility they were robbing out on the table and began to explain the details of the plan, stopping only when Michael "accidentally" ran into Dougherty on the way back from the bathroom. He apologized, but I doubted it was an accident. Despite the short time we had known one another, I had learned that Michael was deceptively intelligent. He had reasons for everything he did which often were not apparent until after the fact.

Michael and Dougherty behaved themselves for the rest of the meeting, and I noticed with some satisfaction that Michael asked a number of good questions about the plan, pointing out a couple non-obvious flaws as well as ways to correct them. He was obviously a skilled strategist. When Sean mentioned this exceptional strategic ability, he simply grinned and reminded the group that he had been in the army.

As Pat was finalizing escape routes and rally points, something caught my eye. It was a flurry of movement off to my left, in the very corner of my peripheral vision. I turned more fully in that direction, my eyes searching the shadows for what I had seen. The room we were in was large for an office, and we were in the back corner of it which meant that the corner diagonal to me was too dark to see clearly. Michael obviously noted my distraction, for he turned to me, expression curious. "What's wrong?" he asked, his gaze following mine to the corner.

"I don't know. Jes' somethin' feels off." His eyes searched for a moment more before he took a step toward the corner to investigate. As he moved closer, I suddenly saw what had alerted my initial suspicions—a distinct, human-shaped figure hidden by the shadows. At first, I thought it might be Brian come to tell us he was closing up for the night, but he would not have hidden so long. And since the corner in which the mystery figure stood was close to the door of the room, it would have been easy enough for a stranger with nefarious purposes to slip in from the side alley and enter the room without entering the main part of the bar. For now I was sure the stranger was not a friend—he had some sort of malicious intent that I just did not know yet.

As Michael stepped within two meters of the corner, the figure suddenly stepped out as well, something clutched in his hand. He wore a dark mask over his face, so it was impossible to see his features, but the object he was holding was quite recognizable. The man had a grenade without a pin, a small but deadly weapon likely to explode at any second. I reacted instinctively, my body already moving before my mind had even fully registered the grenade. Grabbing Michael, I pulled him back, away from the corner. We raced towards the others who had already recognized the danger as well, flipping the heavy wooden table we had been standing around. Yanking Michael's arm, I pulled him behind it as well just as the man released his arm, tossing the grenade so that it clattered to the floor where Michael had just been standing. Just as we dove for cover, the grenade exploded, sending flying chunks of metal in every direction. I heard a couple hit the table, but the wood was thick enough to stop them. A grunt of pain, however, told me that not everyone had escaped unharmed.

Sean was on his feet as soon as the blast ended, gun in hand, and after a quick check to make sure I was not injured, Michael was as well. Both sprinted toward the doorway where the man had disappeared, but I did not hold out much hope that they would find him. Whoever had thrown the grenade had obviously known the pub well enough to realize how to get in and get out quickly.

Still reeling slightly from the explosion, I sat up and glanced at my remaining companions to see what the damage was. Most appeared unharmed, but Pat was holding his lower leg, blood seeping through his fingers. I opened my mouth to ask if he was okay, but Brian's voice interrupted before I could say anything. "I heard an explosion. What the hell happened?"

"Some feckin' loyalist snuck in the back'n threw a grenade. How'd they even know we were here?"

"Tis not exactly a secret this is a republican pub," I said, crawling towards Pat. "He may not've known anything. Jes' got lucky. How bad is it?" I directed my last question at Pat who shut his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth as he rolled up the cuff of his pants.

"Could've been worse," he remarked. "Jes' didn't get me leg behind the table quick enough. I'm lucky the rest of me was covered."

"We all are," Niall agreed. "If Fiona hadn't seen the bastard when she did, we might be singin' a different tune." Sean and Michael reappeared, both shaking their heads. Pat cursed loudly, reaching up to use the table as leverage to push himself to his feet.

"Pat, ya shouldn't walk on that leg 'til we have a doctor see te it," I told him.

"Dr. O'Connor's out in the pub," Brian offered. "I'll bring him in." Pat grunted in thanks as Seamus helped guide him to a nearby chair so that he could sit with his injured leg extended in front of him. Sean and Niall joined him, asking about his injury. Michael crossed to my side, placing a hand on my cheek as he gave me a small smile.

"Thank ya," he said sincerely. "Ya saved my life."

"Consider us even," I bargained.

"Actually, the way I see it, ya still owe me one."

"Fair enough," I agreed. Smiling, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine for a moment. I let my eyes close, breathing in his scent, a mixture of gun oil, sweat, and smoke from the recent explosion. The combination reminded me of just how much I had almost lost, and I felt a surge of anger towards the perpetrators. "Let's go," I told Michael, stepping back and grabbing his hand.

"Yar brother-" he began, but I cut him off.

"Pat's fine. Dr. O'Connor will patch him up jes' fine. He's had worse." I turned, catching my brother's eye. I nodded toward the door, and my expression obviously told him everything he needed to know, for he returned my nod. With that, I drug Michael out of the room and toward my waiting car. He followed willingly though I felt his slight hesitation in every step. "C'mon, Michael. We're wastin' time," I told him. Reaching the car, I unlocked the doors and slid into the passenger's seat. Slightly confused, he walked around and took the driver's seat.

"Time fer what?" he questioned.

"Ya'll se." I checked my purse, happy to note I had the necessary supplies. Setting it on my lap, I gave him directions to our destination. I noted that he slowed a bit as we turned onto a street that was known to belong to the loyalists, but I directed him forward once more. "Okay, stop here," I instructed. He did as I asked without question, and I hopped out of the car with my purse. "Pull down around the block and wait fer me," I instructed. Understanding crossed his face, and I heard him pull away as I moved toward the car. Removing the C4 from my purse, I bent down and placed it carefully on the undercarriage of a nearby car. Once I was satisfied with the placement, I turned and began walking back toward where I had instructed Michael to park, stopping dead in my tracks when I did not see my familiar silver Camry on the corner where it should have been. For one wild moment, I thought he had left me, abandoned me in a known loyalist neighborhood where I was likely to be shot on sight. I pulled my coat tighter against the cold November rain, considering my next move, when I glimpsed a familiar vehicle two blocks ahead. Huffing, I jogged towards it.

"Why'd ya park so far away?" I questioned, sliding back into the passenger's seat. Instantly, I felt warmer, and I was suspicious it was not just because he had the heater running.

"I didn't want t'get blocked in," he remarked. Together, our eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror where my little surprise detonated, engulfing the car in flames. "I had a notion ya were doin' more'n slashin' tires," he added knowingly.

"Ya think ya know me, McBride?" I challenged. He started to lean closer, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I'm learnin'." Behind us, the flames shot higher, but neither one of us noted as our lips met in a hungry kiss. His tongue delved almost immediately into my mouth, deepening the kiss as the worry and fright from earlier in the night rose to the surface. Kissing Michael had always been an extremely pleasurable experience, but on the current night, there was something different about his kiss. It seemed almost desperate, an affirmation that I was real and living and with him. I could understand the sentiment, for I felt the same way. I did not even want to consider what might have happened if I had seen the grenade even one second later.

Sirens caused us to pull away, and Michael started the car, driving away from the crime scene. He kept us just under the speed limit to avoid unwanted attention, constantly checking his mirrors for a tail. He drove to my flat and parked the car. No words passed between us as we both exited, turning towards my flat. We did not bother with the elevator, instead taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor. As soon as the door to my apartment closed behind us, he turned, pressing me back against the door as his lips captured mine in a deep kiss. I returned it with equal fervor, sensing immediately where the night was headed. With our near miss fresh in our minds, we needed an assurance that we were still alive and together.

When air became necessary, he pulled away, his eyes meeting mine. I saw the question in them, and I answered by stepping back and pulling my shirt over my head. Immediately, our lips reattached as his hands roamed my now bare torso, his motions sure and eager. As one large hand cupped my breast, I moaned, letting my head fall back against the doorway. His confidence augmented my desire, and I pressed back against him, pushing him towards my bedroom. With a grunt, he reached behind and lifted me off the ground, carrying us both back to the bedroom.

*****Explicit scene*****

He laid me carefully on the bed and used his lips and hands to begin a slow worship of my body, alighting a fire with every touch. It surprised me somewhat, for I had not expected him to be such a gentle lover. However, his gentleness certainly did not diminish his skills, and he managed to bring me quaking to release before even removing any of his clothes. He slowed his caresses then, giving me a chance to recover before continuing. Once I gained my senses again, I began slipping the buttons from the flannel shirt he wore, pushing it off his shoulders. His undershirt soon followed, and I marveled for a bit at the smooth planes of his chest. I had seen him bare-chested before, but it had been just after he was shot, and my mind had not been on romance at the time. Now that I was lying in bed with him and we had the prospect of an entire night of pleasure before us, I took the chance to truly appreciate his body. My hands ran over his pectorals, tracing their outline before briefly tweaking his nipples. I next dropped them to his abdomen, smoothing them across the creases between the muscles there. He moaned at my caresses, and I smiled as I leaned forward to press my lips to his soft skin as well, relishing our new intimacy.

At long last, I divested him of his pants and underwear, and he wrapped his arms around me, flipping us both over. His hand reached down, testing my readiness. It was an action that was not truly needed, but I was grateful for the consideration nevertheless. Once satisfied that I was wet, he propped himself on his elbows, his eyes meeting mine. I detected a hint of nervousness in his gaze. "Are you. . . em. . . do I need something?" His words were halting, and it took a moment for me to understand what he was saying. When I did, my eyes went wide with the realization that I had nearly overlooked that important detail. I was generally exceptionally careful with such matters. Though I loved my son, I certainly was not ready to be a mother of two. I had even gone so far as to illegally obtain some birth control pills, unable to get a prescription from any republican doctors in the North due to their friendship with my brothers. However, it had given me awful headaches, so I had decided it was not worth the effort. Instead, I kept a supply of other prophylaxes on hand, knowing I could not trust men to think of such things.

"I have something," I told him, reaching for my nightstand. He shook his head, stilling my hand, and for one wild moment, I thought he was going to ignore my wishes, continue on despite our lack of protection. I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but before I could do so, he reached down and pulled his wallet from his pants, extracting a condom from the billfold. I raised an eyebrow at him. "Ya came prepared," I said. Though my tone was teasing, a large part of me was grateful for his forethought. Most men I knew would not have thought to bring anything and, if they had, likely would not have stopped to ask about using it in the heat of the moment.

"I like t'prepare fer any eventuality," he said, tearing open the foil wrapper.

"Ya're an interesting man, McBride," I remarked, stilling his hands with mine so that I could take the prophylaxis from his fingers.

"Michael," he insisted, letting the wrapper drop to the side as I took the condom in my hands. Placing it on his tip, I slowly rolled it down his erection, causing him to buck forward into my touch with a moan. Pleased with that reaction, I squeezed him a bit at the base, watching as his eyes rolled back in bliss. He was hard and long in my hand, and I marveled a bit at his size. Though not the largest man I had ever been with, he was certainly in the top quartile, and I gleefully anticipated the feel of him filling me completely. With that thought in mind, I released him, shifting my hips so that our centers were aligned. His eyes opened and held my gaze as he pushed his way slowly inside me.

He set a languid pace at first, both of us growing accustomed to the new sensations. However, it did not take long for him to begin to thrust with greater vigor, obviously nearing his end. I followed his lead, letting my hips rise to meet each thrust. I was getting close again, and I wondered if he would be able to push me over. It was not often that I was able to orgasm with a man inside me, but it was certainly an enjoyable experience, one I imagined would be even more enjoyable with my current lover. He obviously sensed the direction of my thoughts, for one of his hands slid down my body, his finger seeking my center. He pressed against the sensitive nub, causing me to moan and writhe beneath him. As I did so, I felt him still, his breath catching in his throat. Obviously, he was close as well, and a thrill shot down my spine as I watched him close his eyes against the sensations.

"Fi, I'm close," he warned, his words a low groan. It was the first time he had shortened my name, and I realized he was growing more comfortable with me, with us. I could definitely grow used to hearing that particular moniker more, especially with the undercurrent of arousal seeping into it. I inwardly applauded his restraint—most men would have just finished instead of pausing to warn me. I felt that earned him a reward, one I happily supplied. Raising my legs off the bed, I wrapped them around his waist, crossing my ankles together. The position caused my hips to rise off the bed slightly, changing the angle of our joining and allowing him to slip a bit deeper inside me.

"Fi," he ground out between gritted teeth. His finger began to rub faster, causing me to forget my teasing momentarily as I lost myself in the pleasure. His hips were thrusting even faster, hitting the very core of me with each thrust. The sensation sent a pleasurable shockwave through my body, and that, coupled with his circling fingers, had my inner muscles tightening around him. That seemed to be the final straw for him; he gave a long groan of release as his thrusts lost their rhythm. Surprisingly, his orgasm triggered my own, and I shouted with my own release as he continued to stroke inside me.

*****End explicit scene*****

Afterwards, he collapsed beside me, keeping me close to him so that he could stay inside. We kissed for a minute or so until his softening member forced him to pull out lest we undo the work the condom had done. He dealt with the mess quickly and efficiently, padding to the bathroom to discard the used condom before returning to bed and taking me into his arms. His kisses were slow and deep, an indication that he was likely growing tired, but I was not done with him yet. I met his next languid kiss with a fierce one of my own, and he pulled back in surprise, eyes searching mine. I smiled coyly, and he returned it, obviously seeing the intent in my eyes. With that, I took the lead, pushing him onto his back so I could straddle him as round two began.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 (Michael)**

A knock at the door roused me from a deep slumber, and my hand immediately reached deeper under my pillow, searching for my weapon. My hands came up empty, causing a surge of panic which brought me fully awake. I sat up straight in bed, eyes searching the room for anything which could be used for defense. Beside me, I heard a groan and a muffled curse, and the events of the previous night came flooding back. I relaxed slightly, reaching out to twirl a tendril of her hair around my finger. Though visitors were infrequent at my apartment, I imagined Fiona had quite a few, for she had a large family that she actually liked and a number of business associates. A threat would likely not come knocking—I suspected that if someone truly wanted to hurt Fiona or me, the intrusion would be a full-fledged breach. "Someone's at yar door," I told her.

"Tell 'em to piss off and come back later. Tis too early t'be awake."

"Fi, it could be your brothers," I pointed out. I doubted they would be too happy to see me in their sister's apartment so early in the morning.

"Them ya can definitely shoot."

"Fi!" She grumbled another complaint but did roll out of bed. Her eyes searched the floor for a moment before alighting on my discarded flannel. Wrapping it around her form, she buttoned it up quickly and walked out of the room before I could protest her choice of clothing. Not that I wanted to protest too much; she actually looked quite beautiful wearing my shirt with the sleeves covering her hands and the bottom skimming her upper thigh. But having one of her brothers catch her in my clothing was not exactly my idea of the best way to ingratiate myself with them.

I began to gather the rest of my clothes as I heard her open the door. I was just slipping on my boxers when she said, "Tierney, what're ya doin' here?"

"I'm here t'see ya, o'course," an unfamiliar male voice remarked. It definitely did not belong to one of her brothers, and I decided to pull on my pants a bit more quickly.

"Why? I told ya we were finished, Tierney. Thought ya understood." Her voice had grown a bit louder, and I decided it was high time to intervene. Buttoning my jeans, I stepped into the living room, glancing over at the newcomer. I recognized him instantly—years of training had honed my naturally good memory of faces almost to perfection. He was the man I had seen Fiona with in the pub the first time I caught sight of her, the man with her when the bartender informed me she was taken. I had assured him that the kiss she gave him was the end of their relationship. It was somewhat comforting to know that I was right. It was also comforting to see him glance at me, note my state of undress, and put the pieces together.

"Well, that didn't take long."

"Don't give me that, Tierney. I know damned well ya had Molly between yar sheets the night after we broke up. An' I don't care either. We're not together anymore, so what ya do wit' yar time isn't my problem. Just like what I do wit' mine isn't yours."

"Who is he, anyway? Is he that feckin' Brit ya've been sleepin' with?"

"I'm Irish," I told him, crossing the room quickly. I was happy to note that he took two steps back when I moved closer. At least I seemed to have intimidation on my side.

"Well, whatever ya're, ya're not right for Fiona here."

"As I recall, neither were ya," Fiona remarked. "Or have ya forgotten Sinead?"

"Fiona, I-"

"Save it, Tierney. I'm tired of yar excuses. Now, get out of my flat. I won't ask again." Her eyes blazed as she glared at him. He moved his gaze from her to me, and I simply stared stonily back.

"Alright," he finally conceded. "Ya'll come back t'me once you realize ya need a real man."

"Oh, I have a real man," she told him, her eyes glinting with mischief. "In fact, I realized it three times over last night." Her tone was suggestive, and I started to redden at the comment. I had never been comfortable discussing my sex life with strangers or honestly even my lovers. But, I reminded myself, that was Michael Westen. Michael McBride was different, more open with his life and intimate activities. With that thought in mind, I stepped forward, placing an arm around Fiona's hips.

"Actually, I believe twas four times," I said, my eyes meeting hers. She grinned at the meaning behind my words, and we virtually ignored Tierney as he huffed and stormed out of the room. As soon as he was gone, she refastened the chain and turned the deadbolt.

"Ya're quite sure of yarself there, McBride," she teased, stepping closer to me. "Think ya can make it five 'fore breakfast?"

"Oh, I think I can make it six," I said. With that, I captured her lips, walking her backwards until I could press her against the door.

When we had finally temporarily sated one type of hunger, I slipped out of bed to obtain supplies for satiating the other. When I returned with a tray of breakfast, she gave me a lazy smile. "I could get used t'this," she said. "Tis like havin' me own slave."

"Don't get use te it," I warned. "Tis a one-time thing."

"Even if I made it worth yar while?" Her fingers danced over my still-bare chest, and I swallowed hard. It was amazing the effect she had on me—we had made love most of the previous night and current morning, but I still wanted her.

"We'll talk later. Eat first," I said, pointing to the food. She gave a coy smile but did drop her hand so that she could eat. I grabbed the second plate and began shoveling food into my mouth as well. It was nearly noon, and I was typically awake and eating by 6:00, so I was not too surprised I was ravenous.

"So I was thinkin'," she remarked, her tone casual. I glanced up sharply. That sentence could be quite dangerous coming out of Fiona's mouth. "What're ya doin' Sunday? After mass, o'course."

"I don't have any plans. Why?"

"Ya should come over fer Sunday brunch wit' me family."

My eyes grew wide at the prospect. "Fi, I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Oh, come on, Michael, twon't be that bad. Jes' some good food, good company, and good whiskey. Ya'll have fun." I doubted it. Family gatherings had never been fun for me, and I did not think one that included the five over-protective brothers of my current lover would be any better than the few others I had attended.

"Fi, brunch wit' the family really isn't me thing."

"Well, tis mine. Ya're not scared o'me brothers, are ya?"

"I amn't scared," I objected immediately. "I jes'. . . don't much like family gatherin's."

"Well, Michael, I suggest ya start t'like them because me family has a lot of them, and I expect ya t'make an effort to be at some." Her eyes narrowed, challenging me, and I knew I had little choice but to accept. Finally, I nodded. "Good," she declared. "I'll call me mam later an' get the details settled." With that, she leaned forward, kissing me soundly. I decided that if all her rewards were similar to that one, perhaps I would not mind going to family outings quite so much.

We parted ways early that afternoon, Fiona to retrieve Aodhan from his grandmother's and me to ostensibly return home, work out, and shower. Once back at my apartment, I pulled my burner phone from the false bottom of my nightstand drawer and dialed Dan's familiar number.

"I hope you're calling to tell me you've got news of where a certain weapons supplier is sending his shipments," Dan remarked.

"Not yet," I said. "But I did manage to bug his phone and put a tracker on it last night, so we should know soon," I added before he could chastise me.

"If you did so last night, why are you just calling now?"

"I wasn't able to call last night."

"Why not?" I stayed silent, but Dan was smart enough to put the pieces of the puzzle together. "Dammit, Michael, you're sleeping with her, aren't you? I thought I told you to stay away."

"Actually, you didn't," I pointed out.

"Michael, you know this is for your own good. She's an IRA guerilla with an Interpol file thicker than the Oxford English Dictionary, and you're an agent with the CIA. You know how this is going to end."

I did, but I did not want to dwell on that. "I've got the bug set up to record. Do you have someone near here that I could pass these recordings to?"

"Michael, are you listening to what I'm saying?"

"I'd listen to them myself, but it's a lot of material, and I have a lot of other things to do as well. I can skim through them before handing them off, try to come up with a highlight reel, but someone else will need to do more analysis," I continued, ignoring him.

I heard him sigh heavily. "Fine. On your head be it. But when this goes south, don't come crying to me." I heard the click of his keyboard as he typed something. "There are a couple operatives in Dublin. I'll arrange a drop off and call back with the details."

"Thanks, Dan." I hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, thinking. After the previous night, I could no longer deny that I was growing attached to Fiona Glenanne, certainly more attached that Dan would like. The line was slowly blurring between asset and girlfriend, a line that had admittedly been a bit murky from the beginning. And because of that, there was another call I needed to make, another person who deserved to hear from me. I had not come to Ireland unattached; in fact, after my last job, I had left a fiancée behind when I boarded a plane to return to Langley for a briefing about my current mission. And while I knew that Samantha would not have minded a lack of communication on a normal mission, for she understood the demands of my job well, I doubted she would appreciate the fact that I was sleeping with someone else. She would especially not like the fact that I was sleeping with someone else who I cared about, perhaps even more than I cared about her. I needed to tell her about Fiona, to end the engagement. . . arrangement. . . whatever it was we had. It would be the best thing for everyone.

In the end, I did not dial the number. I told myself that the news I was giving was the type that needed to be told in person and thus I should wait until I could see Samantha again. In truth, I was scared of ending the relationship. Samantha was easy to be with; she accepted me exactly as I was, scars and all. I already knew, however, that Fiona would push me, challenge me to be a better man. In the end, that was the best option for me, but it was not an easy one to choose. It was also not easy for me to admit to myself that I actually cared about someone enough to want to change for her. I was not ready for that type of commitment, for to me, the willingness to change for another was a greater commitment than even marriage. If I married Samantha, we would likely continue living as we were currently—two separate people who enjoyed each other's company from time to time. But if I stayed with Fiona, our relationship had the potential to turn much more complicated. Our lives were already on their way to becoming inextricably intertwined, and I guessed the trend would continue as we spent more time together. That was a much more daunting prospect than marriage.

I placed the phone back in the false-bottom drawer and crossed to the other side of the room where I had set up the recording equipment in an old roll-top desk, locking it to keep the high-tech gadgets hidden. While not the greatest hiding spot, it was the best I could come up with in the tiny apartment. I had added an additional security feature—a small piece of tape on the far corner of the roll top which would tell me if someone had disturbed it. A quick glance told me no one had, and I unlocked the top, pushing it back before settling in the chair to begin sifting through the recordings from the previous night, hoping that such a mundane task might take my mind off of my impossible situation.

Three days later, I made the pleasant drive out to Fiona's childhood home by myself, for Fiona and Aodhan had stayed with her mother the night before. She claimed it was easier that way since they went to church in Draperstown which was much closer to the farm. I did not say anything, fearing that if I did, she would invite me to attend church with her family, and that was one thing I simply could not do. It was not necessarily that I did not want to attend church (though I could think of far more pleasant ways to spend a Sunday morning)—it was that I never had attended church, but that would have been unheard of for a lad from Kilkenny. In the ritualistic ceremony, someone was sure to notice that I did not know what I was doing.

Interestingly, no one waited at the gate, looking for suspicious cars, and I drove through wondering if Fiona had told the guards to expect me. I parked near the garage for her mother's house, cutting the engine and reaching back to grab the bottle of whiskey I had bought. The alcohol was Fiona's suggestion—I had originally planned on bringing a nice bouquet of flowers, thinking it was the sort of thing women loved. When I told Fiona of my plan, however, she had informed me that Birgit Glenanne was not a normal woman and suggested something a bit stronger. Since I had never been good at getting gifts, I took her advice.

I hesitated a moment at the door before ringing the bell. The door opened a moment later, and I looked in surprise at the empty air in front of me. A small voice directed my gaze downwards. "Who're you?" the young boy asked.

"Michael," I answered, flashing what I hoped was an ingratiating smile.

"Davin, who's at the door?" Birgit asked, appearing behind him. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and a smile spread slowly across her face. It looked vaguely predatory, but perhaps I was reading too much into the situation. "Michael McBride. Good t'see ya uninjured."

"An' ya as well, Mrs. Glenanne. This is fer ya." I held out the bottle, and she glanced at the label before giving me an approving nod. Silently, I thanked Fiona for the suggestion. Stepping out of the door, she gestured for me to enter, and I followed her into the house. It was bustling with activity; in addition to the boy who had answered the door and Aodhan, four other children were running around, and none of them appeared older than seven or eight. Watching them warily, I moved toward a nearby wall, hoping to avoid too much contact. Though I was growing more comfortable with Aodhan as I spent more time around him, I was not yet ready to take on the full force of the youngest Glenanne generation.

"Mick-ll!" Aodhan shouted happily, spotting me. He ran straight at me, hitting my legs so hard that I stumbled back into the wall. It seemed to be his favorite form of greeting, one I simply did not understand. I supposed it might have had a certain tactical advantage if he jumped out from a hiding place, but as it was, he lost the element of surprise by announcing his presence as loudly as possible.

"Hello, Aodhan," I greeted, lifting him into my arms since I had learned from experience that that was what he wanted. He wrapped both arms around my neck, hugging tightly before placing a wet, sloppy kiss on my cheek. I did my best not to grimace, having expected such a gesture. Fiona thought it was sweet, and though I secretly believed Aodhan was doing it to see me squirm, I let him continue since it seemed to make Fiona happy.

"Michael, ya made it," Fiona herself greeted, stepping to my side and pressing a brief kiss to my lips.

"O'course I did. Yar mam liked the whiskey, by the by. Twas a good suggestion."

"Whiskey is always a good gift fer a Glennane," she agreed. "Come on, I'll introduce ya t'everyone." She grabbed the arm not holding Aodhan, leaving me little choice but to follow her as she introduced me to the rest of her family. I did my best to memorize the names she gave, but after I accidentally called one of the girls Regan which was, much to my surprise, a boy's name that caused her to burst into tears, I decided to stick with pronouns. Fiona clicked her tongue at me as her sister-in-law shuffled her daughter away to calm her. "Seriously, Michael, who names a girl Reagen? 'Tis askin' fer her t'be mocked."

"Sorry. I jes'. . . wasn't thinkin'," I apologized quickly, reaffirming my promise to avoid all the small children but Aodhan. It would be easier for everyone.

Brunch was a loud, boisterous affair. Conversation flowed freely, and though I had never been the type of person who was particularly talkative at social gatherings, I allowed my Michael McBride persona to take over, easily charming the Glenannes near me. As I spun a particularly amusing tale about one of my missions in the Middle East (with certain key details omitted), I caught Fiona's eye. She raised her glass as she smiled at me, a clear gesture that my efforts to ingratiate myself with her family were not in vain. I wondered if that knowledge would appease Dan though I doubted it would. Deep cover missions were always difficult—the lines between reality and the cover often started to blur until they disappeared entirely. I may have deluded myself into thinking I was developing relationships with the Glenanne clan for the mission, but I knew there were other, more personal, reasons as well.

After brunch, Aodhan asked me to play soccer with him, and I agreed easily enough, for it would prevent me from needing to maintain small talk with the adults. Though I could maintain an easy conversation with virtually anyone for hours, another perk of my training, it was draining, especially in a situation such as the current one which was far outside my comfort zone. A couple of the other children joined us, including the girl who was not Regan, and we spent about half an hour kicking the ball around before a hand on my shoulder stopped me mid-juggle. "Hey, kids, I'm goin' t'borrow yar Uncle Mike for a bit. D'ya mind?" Patrick questioned. The kids all shook their heads, happy to continue the game without me. Traitors. With his hand still on my shoulder, Patrick led me across the yard to the area where the rest of the adults stood. They were all watching us carefully, and I suddenly realized what cattle felt like as they were led to slaughter.

"Didya need somethin', Patrick?" I questioned.

"Jes' thought ya might be interested in a game," he remarked. His tone indicated that he was not asking a question. Whatever game he wanted to play was non-negotiable.

"I s'pose I can handle a game. What d'ya have in mind?"

"Ya'll see." He led me to a table where a bottle of whiskey sat, a shot glass beside it. I hoped he was not going to force me to play a drinking game. Though my alcohol tolerance was decent enough, I had never been much of a drinker after seeing what alcohol did to my father. I doubted I would be able to survive a drinking game with five Irishmen. "Here. Drink up." He poured me a generous shot and slapped me on the back. I tipped the whiskey back, suppressing a wince as it burned down my throat. Just as the last drop slid to my stomach, I sensed movement behind me, and I reached back automatically, grabbing the arm of whoever was trying to sneak up on me. Without thinking, I spun the person around, twisting his arm behind his back. A yelp of pain caught my attention, and I realized that I had captured Kieran. Quickly, I released my hold, hoping that I had not hurt him too badly. I knew Fiona would not appreciate me hurting her brothers.

Unfortunately, Kieran did not seem to want me to leave him alone. He threw a clumsy punch at me which I quickly blocked, followed by a kick which I grabbed. "What're ya doin'?" I asked, releasing his leg. He did not answer in words, but two more punches told me what I needed to know. On the third, I spun him around again, holding both his arms behind him. "C'mon. If ya don't stop, I'm goin' t'hurt ya," I warned. Despite this warning, however, he came at me again, his punches still wild.

"C'mon, McBride, finish him!" Fiona called. I glanced at her, confused. "Didn't ya ever wrestle before?" she asked. Understanding dawned on me, and when Kieran next attacked, I grabbed his arm, using his own momentum to flip him onto his back. As soon as he lay on the ground, I followed, pinning his shoulders to the ground. The rest of the Glenannes began counting, and a cheer rose up when they reached five. Realizing that I had won, I stood and helped Kieran to his feet. He gave me a small smile before moving away to join his brothers. I turned to find Fiona and suggest that maybe it was time for me to head home, but a voice stopped me.

"Aren't ya goin' t'drink wit' me, McBride?" Seamus challenged. Turning, I saw that he had a shot glass full of whiskey and was staring at the bottle Pat had poured the first shot from. Glancing around, I saw that the remainder of his family was watching expectantly. Forcing a smile onto my face, I walked back to the whiskey bottle, preparing myself to down another shot of the bitter liquid. I had a feeling that it was going to be a long afternoon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 (Fiona)**

I watched as Michael took his second shot and turned to face my second brother. Unlike Kiernan, Seamus came at him hard, his punches sure and forceful. At first, Michael defended each punch, blocking them almost effortlessly. After the third one, he spun, his elbow slamming back into Seamus's diaphragm and causing my brother to bend over in pain as the wind escaped his lungs forcefully. Michael used the opportunity to jam a second elbow into his back, and Seamus collapsed to his knees still coughing. Michael joined him on the ground, using his momentary lapse of concentration to force Seamus's shoulders back, holding them tightly. We began counting anew, but after the first number, something changed in Michael's expression. His hardened visage softened slightly, and I saw his eyes briefly dart over to where I was standing. His hold must have loosened as well, for the next thing I knew, Seamus had flipped Michael over, now pressing Michael's shoulders to the ground. Once more, we started counting, and I knew from the second number that we would finish. Though Michael was struggling, his struggles were half-hearted. Something had changed; he had made some decision not to fight to the full extent of his abilities. I did not know why, but I had a suspicion when I watched Seamus gleefully stand after we finished our five-count, holding up his arms in victory. He even consented to shake Michael's hand.

Michael did defeat Niall though his defeat was far clumsier than I would have expected given his performance when we first met. At first, I tried to blame the alcohol, but he seemed otherwise clearheaded. Also, he had a calculating look in his eye as they fought, indicating that his actions were intentional. I wondered what his intentions were.

After Niall, he suffered two crushing defeats, first at Sean's hand and then at Patrick's. He accepted both gracefully, and after the final one, Patrick actually held out a hand. With a look that indicated he was as surprised as I felt, Michael shook the older man's hand. Their eyes met and held for a moment before Patrick finally nodded, dropping Michael's hand and turning back to his wife. I joined my boyfriend a moment later, slipping my arm into his. "Ya took quite the beatin' there. I would've assumed given yar army experince that you'd be better at this."

"Yar brothers are pretty good, and there are five of them," he pointed out logically. I cocked an eyebrow at him, indicating that I did not truly believe his confession. "An' it seemed like a bad idea to defeat them if I wanted t'date their sister." He gave me his roguish smile, and I returned it, leaning further into him as we walked back toward the house.

We talked late into the evening, and I watched my brothers slowly beginning to warm to Michael. It was unsurprising they did, for Michael was in full charm mode. He kept us all entertained with his war stories which were made even more heroic and daring by the whiskey that rapidly disappeared from the table in front of us. As the others finally started to disperse, Michael glanced over at me with a wide smile. "I s'pose family brunch isn't that bad," he remarked. He glanced at the empty bottles on the table. "Twould probably be best for me t'stay here fer the night," he remarked.

I returned his grin. "Ya're totally langers. Not used t'drinkin' so much are ya, McBride?"

He ignored my teasing. "Ya think yar mam would mind if I stay here?"

"As long as ya're not sleepin' in the same room as me, she'll be fine havin' ya stay over. Allana's here more often than at her own house, I think. Seamus, too."

"And the rest o'yar brothers?"

"They all have their own houses wit'in walkin' distance, so they're here a lot but don't stay over. Seamus lives in the city like me, but he's already workin' on buildin' a house out here so he can move there once he an' Allana marry."

"Is that what ya want t'do, too? Marry and move out here t'yar family's land?"

I was quiet for a moment. A large part of me wanted exactly that, but another part of me realized that I was not the type of person who could quietly tend a farm while chaos reigned less than an hour away. I was the type of person who thrived on adrenaline, who needed to be in the thick of things. Of course, Patrick and Sean had both managed to stay heavily involved with the IRA while still raising families, but I knew it was different for them since they were men with wives who were happy to stay behind and tend to the household. They were expected to be out fighting. I, however, had been fighting against gender stereotypes for much of my life. If I wanted to fight and raise a family, I would first need to find a man who was willing to be an equal partner in everything, and that had proven difficult. Most men fell into one of two buckets—they either wanted to fight with me but did not want the instant family Aodhan provided or they were happy to settle down and help me raise Aodhan but expected me to actually settle. Neither option appealed to me. "I s'pose I might eventually," I finally remarked. "But right now, I'm happy wit' how things are. I'm close enough t'come home often and Aodhan's close t'his cousins, but I can still help out wit' the war. Jes' don't tell me mam that. She already has a spot picked out fer me house, keeps talkin' like I'll be livin' there in a few months time."

"And ya won't be?"

I shrugged. "I likely won't. There's still so much t'do with the army."

"Even with the ceasefire and talks of peace and disarming?"

"Don't know that I trust those British bastards t'keep their word if Sinn Fein does negotiate some sort o'agreement. S'pose I don't know that I trust all of us t'keep our word either. There's jes' so much history, and I don't think the violence will stop jes' because some politicians say it should. The ceasefire certainly hasn't stopped it." I had talked with many other PIRA volunteers about their plans for the future. Some were cautiously optimistic about the outcome of the peace talks and were planning to lay down their guns and find more peaceful work. Others were joining the new movement that had sprung up, a movement calling itself the _Oglaigh na hEireann_. Pat, Sean, Niall, and Seamus had already agreed to be a part of the movement, and though I had not officially voiced my support, I had unofficially joined as well by not following the ceasefire.

Michael obviously sensed the morose direction of my thoughts, and he hastened to change the subject. "So this land has been in yar family for awhile then?"

"So long we don't even know who originally bought it. Me family's added te it over the years, so we have over two thousand acres now." His eyes went wide as he glanced out the window.

"And it all belongs t'yar mam?"

"Legally, it belongs t'Patrick since me da's family set it up such that the oldest son would inherit it all t'keep it from bein' split many times over. But it doesn't really matter who owns it; family's important to Glenannes, so anyone who wants t'stay here can. We have about thirty families living here now, most o'them so distantly related I couldn't tell ya what our connection is."

"So the guards the other night?"

"A coupla men who live on the south side. Third cousins, I think. Or maybe fourth. The younger one watched the British gun down his whole family when he was jes' fifteen. Came t'me da after that, said he wanted t'help out wit' the Provos. Da took him in, helped him build a small house on our land. He married a few years later and has five kids now. He was completely devoted t'me da fer helpin' him, and now he has the same devotion fer Pat. Pretty much everyone who lives here does. We watch out fer each other, help out when others need it. Ye don't get the same violence here that ye do in the city. The fence keeps most unwanted visitors out, but if we hear of trouble brewin', we post sentries t'keep everyone safe. Never have a shortage o'volunteers either."

"Why don't ya move out here then? Sounds like it would be a much safer place fer ya an'Aodhan."

"I'm not ready t'settle. Me place is in the city where I can be an active part o'the army." He studied me curiously, his eyes surprisingly clear despite the alcohol he had consumed earlier. I knew he did not understand. Few people likely could understand my reasons; even some members of my own family thought I was crazy for putting my own life and the life of my son at risk by staying in Belfast. I had long since given up trying to convince them that I was doing the right thing—both for me and for Aodhan. I did not need to justify myself to anyone. "Never mind. Tis not somethin' I want t'talk about tonight. It's gettin' late." I stood, effectively ending the conversation. After a moment's hesitation, he stood as well, catching my hand as I turned.

"Tis okay," he assured me. "We all do things for reasons that are hard t'explain t'others." He spoke with a sincerity that told me he had a few such things himself, but since he had respected my wish not to speak, I decided not to ask further questions of him either.

"C'mon, let's find an empty bed fer ya," I said, motioning him forward. He gave me a feral grin.

"Don't much mind if ya're the one makin' it full," he remarked.

I shook my head at him. "I'd prefer ya t'survive the first Glenanne brunch, and if me mam catches us in bed together, ya won't." With that, I led him up the stairs to find a spare bedroom.

I spent much of the next week with Michael and Aodhan at the shooting range, working on improving Michael's sniper skills. By the end of our time, he had actually grown fairly proficient at hitting a target up to two hundred meters away, and he was getting better with longer distances as well. Much to Aodhan's delight, we spent many of our evenings together too. I learned that Michael's cooking skills were far superior to mine; he seemed to be able to make a wide variety of dishes from around the world which even Aodhan mostly ate without complaint. When I questioned him on this ability, he shrugged and explained that he had not just picked up fighting skills in the army. I wondered how he was still single. He seemed like the man of every woman's dreams—athletic, handsome, funny, a good fighter, and a decent cook. He even cleaned, often picking up Aodhan's toys before I had a chance to do so. I was growing comfortable around him, comfortable enough that I started to contemplate whether or not he might be someone I could spend the rest of my life with. I knew my mother certainly thought he could be; she had been dropping hints ever since meeting him at brunch. I shrugged her off, reminding her that we still had not known one another long, but she warned me not to wait too long or risk losing him.

After putting Aodhan to bed one night, we settled together on the couch with two glasses of wine and a couple books. I had read a few pages of mine before realizing he had not even cracked the cover of his. Concerned, I set the book aside and turned to him. "Ya seem t'be thinkin' hard."

He was silent for a moment before speaking. "Me mam's birthday is the day after tomorrow. I don't see her much anymore since we've never been close, but-"

"Go," I urged, hearing the hesitation in his voice. After growing up with a loving family, I had never quite understood his tumultuous relationship with his mother. He had claimed it was mostly rocky because of his father, but he did not like to talk about his family much, so I did not know more than that. I had never pressed the issue, sensing the hesitation each time I brought it up.

"Ya're sure? It'll only be for a coupla days, and then-"

"I'm sure, Michael. She's yar mam, and it's her birthday. You should be there. And maybe one day, I can come wit' ya t'meet her."

"She'd like that," Michael said. "But not yet. I'm not ready to introduce ya t'that part o'me life yet. I want t'get t'know ya better 'fore ya're scared away."

"I don't scare easily, Michael. Ya should know that by now."

"I know. And one day, I'll take ya. I'm just not ready yet." I nodded, happy with the compromise. Perhaps I was not the only one who was considering a future together.

Michael returned from his trip appearing exhausted and drained. I was a bit surprised that attending his mother's birthday had taken so much out of him, but I respected his desire to keep his family life separate for now and did not ask questions. Maybe one day I would understand him better, but for now, I was simply content to have him back with me. I enlisted Aodhan to help me cheer him up, and it was not long before the normal, carefree McBride returned. It was just in time, too, for the day had come to perform one of the biggest heists we had ever attempted.

Our target was a large industrial building on the outskirts of Belfast. It had once been a food processing plant, but it had closed its doors long before. Eventually, the British soldiers had taken it over to use as a base of operations and storage facility, and though their numbers had dwindled in recent months, there were still quite a few of them stationed there. We had wondered why in the past, for it was off the beaten path and didn't seem to provide a strategic advantage. A soldier Sean had captured six weeks before had provided the answer—the soldiers were using it not just for munitions storage, which we had mostly expected, but also for the storage of a good deal of money, money they had obtained by force from many suspected Provos supporters. Apparently, the original owner of the plant had been paranoid about the banks, so he had installed a large safe in the back where he kept all of his money. The dirty soldiers took advantage of the safe for their own funds, making the target too tempting to pass up. A bit of persuasion from Sean had convinced the captive to give us the make and model of the safe, and we began planning the heist.

Michael was silent as we drove to the storage facility. He had entered his brooding mode again, the personality he seemed to often adopt before we did something dangerous. Since Patrick had refused to allow me to divulge the location of the heist, I was driving which meant his hands were idle. He obviously did not appreciate being in such a state, and he disassembled and reassembled his weapons so many times that I lost count. Eventually, I reached over and stilled his hands with mine. "We'll be fine," I told him, giving him a small smile. He did not return it.

"I still don't see why ya have t'be the one t'go in."

The smile slipped from my face. "Because Pat asked me to. If ya have a problem with a woman being part of a heist, I can pull this car over right now an'-"

"It's not that," he assured me, interrupting my tirade. "I jes' don't want ya t'get hurt. I'd rather be with ya so I can help if it comes t'that."

"Pat is perfectly capable of providing whatever tactical assistance I might need. Not that I'll need any. I'm not a delicate flower t'be protected, McBride. The sooner ya learn that, the better." I turned away from him, unwilling to discuss the subject any longer, and silence descended over us.

I was still fuming a bit when we reached our destination, but I pushed my feelings of anger aside to focus on the job at hand. I knew that I could not let emotions dictate my actions or I would end up dead. With that thought in mind, I pulled my Hecate out of the trunk and passed it to Michael who took it wordlessly. I then outfitted myself with several weapons as well before slamming the trunk shut a bit harder than necessary. Michael caught my arm before I could move away. "Please, jes' be careful," he said. His words were soft, his tone laced with concern. I glanced up to see him staring at me with pleading blue eyes, and I felt my anger abate slightly.

"I will," I agreed. He gave me a soft smile before letting me go. We hiked about half a mile to the rendezvous point where Pat, Seamus, and Kevin were already waiting. Pat flicked a bit of ash from the cigarette he held to the ground. "Good, ya're here. McBride, I want ya t'go with Kevin and Seamus and start settin' up along the perimeter. There's a good perch in the trees over there, and it's only 150 meters or so from the warehouse Ya can give that t'McBride." With five brothers, I had a good deal of experience with the male ego, and I expected Michael to object to the obvious slight of his abilities. However, he surprised me by simply nodding before giving me a tight smile and following the other two men into the trees. Pat then handed me the night vision binoculars he was holding. "There's a bit o'a change t'the plan, too," he remarked, pointing to the warehouse. I pressed the binoculars to my eyes, focusing on the building. "Seems our friend wasn't entirely truthful. There's three guards on the back and four at the front."

"He may not have lied. They may have increased security after we captured him." I confirmed Pat's assessment of the situation with the binoculars and handed them back to him. "No matter," I said, pulling a gun from my belt. I moved the slide back and let it move smoothly into place with a satisfying click. "We can take out four men hes' as well as two."

He gave me a smile as he tossed his cigarette butt to the side and ground it out beneath his toe. "We can at that," he remarked. I returned his grin. Ever since I was a little girl, I had always loved and admired my older brother. He had been my protector from an early age, the only person other than my father who I would trust with my life, no matter the circumstances. For while I knew the rest of my brothers loved me and would do everything in their power to protect me, they did not have Patrick's presence, his skills, or his unwavering commitment to the people and the causes he believed in. Many had called him a terrorist, citing some of the things he had done with PIRA. I knew him better than that though, knew the man he was. He was a man of honor, a man who could not sit by while others destroyed innocent lives. He believed in his cause, believed so much that I doubted anyone or anything could stop him. Not that anyone would dare try.

Sean and Niall joined us as Patrick finished his second cigarette, and we went over the final details of the plan before splitting up and moving toward the warehouse. "Kevin, Seamus, McBride, ye still with us?" Pat asked, thumbing on his radio.

"We are," Seamus confirmed. "Got the bloody Brit's noggin in me crosshairs."

"Minimal bloodshed, Seamus," Patrick chastised. "If we take down one of their own, the Brits'll come at us wit' everythin' they've got. Best we take them out non-lethally if we can." Seamus grumbled but did not respond. Patrick took his complaints as assent and nodded to Sean and Niall to start moving. We all circled together to a remote spot of the fence that the guards could not see. It did not take long for us to scale it, dropping silently to the other side. We split into pairs then, Sean and Niall to the back and Patrick and I toward the front. "Slan," Patrick muttered as the dark shapes of my brothers moved away, soon disappearing into the shadows.

Quietly, Patrick and I crept to the front of the building, stopping just at the corner, out of sight of the guards. Patrick glanced at his watch, signaling me to wait. After a few seconds, he pumped his hand forward twice, telling me to move. I needed no second bidding; I quickly rounded the corner and moved toward the guards. Since we had the element of surprise on our hands, we managed to take down two of them, one with the butt of my pistol to the back of his head and the other with Patrick's chokehold, before the other two had fully drawn their weapons. As soon as my victim crumpled to the ground, I spun, kicking the gun out of another soldier's hand. It clattered across the pavement. He dove for it, but I followed him to the ground, grabbing his hand and pulling it behind his back before he could reach the weapon. He struggled, but I had grown up with five brothers and knew how to pin someone heavier than me to the ground effectively. After I slammed his head to the pavement twice, he finally stilled, and I turned to see how Patrick had fared. Fortunately, his mission had been just as successful, and he nodded at me as he pulled rope from the small pack on his back. We used it to quickly tie the hands and feet of the men together before dragging them off to the side where they could not be seen from the road. My pick set made quick work of the five-pin Schlage, and we soon stepped into the large building. I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.

"It seems our friend was tellin' the truth 'bout the guns at least," Patrick remarked from beside me.

"Let's just hope Dougherty gets that truck or else we'll have gone t'all this effort fer a few pistols."

"Fiona." Patrick's voice was a bit strained. He knew my feelings for Dougherty and likely even had some inkling why I did not much like the weasel though I had never told him directly. Still, Dougherty had saved his life years before, and a man does not forget that sort of debt even if the man he's indebted to is a sleazebag.

"I know. He's a good wheel guy. Jes' wish he was good at somethin' else." I moved deeper into the building, following the directions I had memorized after studying the blueprints for hours. Behind me, I heard Patrick greet Sean and Niall.

"Did ye two get a present fer me?"

"Wrapped up nice and neat and not a corner out o'place," Niall said, giving the normal signal we used to indicate that a job had finished successfully without any injuries. That calmed my fears a bit. The hardest part was over. According to our captive, there was only one more guard inside, watching the safe, and after we dealt with him, we were free to do whatever we wanted. My brothers obviously realized this as well, for their voices grew a bit louder as they teased each other, in high spirits. Eventually, Patrick sobered enough to remind the other two that we weren't finished just yet, instructing Sean to go to the front gate to open it for Dougherty while he and Kevin stayed with me. Sean slipped away, and we walked deeper into the building, turning into one of the side rooms that had previously been the owner's office.

Our information was good. As soon as we entered the back room, we saw the safe as well as the man guarding it. He startled upon seeing us, but Patrick dropped him before he had time to react. Kevin then reached into his pack, extracting the drill point diagram and drill. He passed them to me. I was not a renowned safe cracker, but I was better than the rest of the men. They just did not seem to have the patience for it. Normally, I didn't have the patience for such things either, but I had accepted long before that I sometimes needed to do things I did not enjoy in order to get the job done. I began taping the diagram to the front, but as I did, I glanced down and my heart sank. Patrick obviously noted my hesitation, for he stepped over to me. "What is it?"

"He gave us the wrong model," I said. "Dammit!" I tore the drill point diagram from the front of the safe and threw it aside as Patrick confirmed what I had said. He swore under his breath.

"Can ya crack it wit'out the diagram?" he suggested.

"I appreciate the confidence, but ya're seriously overestimatin' my skills."

Patrick swore again. "Okay. Well, it looked like the guns were back in the main area. Tis a shame we can't take some o'the bastard's blood money as well, but maybe we can come back again."

"No. I'm not letting the bastards get away wit' this. Tis our money, Pat, not theirs. It should be back with its rightful owners." I shrugged off my own pack and reached in, pulling out a brick of C4. I had packed it earlier just in case, not thinking I would actually need it. Now, I was grateful that I always came prepared. Patrick and Kevin watched warily as I wired it to a detonator and attached it to the side of the safe. Once satisfied with my work, I stepped back. "Ye may want t'go into the next room," I suggested, moving in that direction myself. A familiar clicking stopped me in my tracks.

"Actually, you may want to stay right there," a voice remarked. The speaker had a strong British accent, and I realized with a sinking feeling that the number of guards out front had not been the only number that our source had gotten wrong. We should have checked the remainder of the building, but we had been too confident, too eager to get to the safe. It may have cost us our lives. "That's good. Now put that detonator down nice and slow and then put your hands on your head." I did as he asked, knowing he would not hesitate to pull the trigger on me if necessary. And since neither Patrick nor Kevin had yet incapacitated him, I guessed that they were similarly caught. "Good girl. Now turn nice and slow." I did as he asked, my eyes quickly sweeping the room. My suspicions were correct; Patrick and Kevin were both on their knees behind me with soldiers pointing weapons at their heads. A fourth man stood in the doorway, his gun trained on Patrick though he watched all three of us warily. "Fiona Glenanne," my captor remarked, his voice as cold as ice. "I thought it might be you when I saw your infamous older brother over there. Tonight truly is my lucky night. We will have quite the fun with you before we kill you." He twirled the barrel of his gun around my hair, and I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat at his actions. I saw Patrick's eyes narrow to angry slits, but the man behind him pressed his own gun harder to Patrick's head, preventing his movement. "First, however, we take care of the brother and the other man. Your boyfriend?" I tightened my lips, giving no response. "I see. I heard you had picked up a new man. Have to say, Fiona, I expected a bit more out of the man you're sleeping with. He barely put up a fight when we put the gun to his head. I always thought you would go for the wild ones." Still, I did not speak. If the soldier was too stupid to see the wedding ring on Kevin's finger and put two and two together, perhaps my real boyfriend would escape with his life and freedom. "Not a talker then? That's fine. I'm sure we'll make you talk soon enough." He nodded to the soldier standing behind Kevin, but before the man could pull the trigger, our radios crackled to life.

"Fi? What's goin' on in there?" It was Michael's voice, and worry laced every word. I sensed movement behind me as the soldier standing there waved his companion down.

"It seems I was wrong. Your boyfriend is somewhere else then. He sounds quite concerned. Get your radio and calm his fears." I did not move, and the barrel pressed harder into my flesh. "Do it or I shoot your friends. And no funny business either. If I get even a slight hint that you're trying to warn him, I will not hesitate to have my men shoot your brother and friend here. And then we will go after your man. And when we find him, it will not be pleasant for either of you. In fact, I think we'll make him watch." Patrick twitched again at the words, but I shook my head at him as the soldier pulled my radio from my belt and held it to my face. My mind thought furiously. I had to think of a way to warn McBride, to make sure he and the others stayed as far away from the building as possible. I would not let anyone else be hurt.

"We're fine, honey," I said, attempting to say the name casually. The word was unfamiliar on my tongue, for I had never been fond of terms of endearment. "Drilling through a safe is slow goin'."

Silently, I prayed that he understood my message but would not say anything to indicate he had. He was a smart man, but the current situation was one that would likely confuse even smart men. After a long, tense moment where I prayed more than I had for weeks, his voice sounded again. "Okay, hon. Let me know when ya're ready, and I'll meet ya at the rendezvous point." I relaxed slightly. He understood. Not only had he responded with an endearment of his own, a casual indicator that he had picked up on my distress signal, but he had spoken as if it was just the four of us in on the heist, directing attention away from the others.

"Good girl," the soldier said, setting my radio aside as he stepped around to my front, keeping the gun on my head. "Now, you're going to tell us all about this rendezvous point."

"And if I don't?" I questioned, my eyes flashing defiantly. My captor raised his arm, striking me across the face with the butt of the gun. "Oh, you will," he assured me.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 (Michael)**

Patrick had a good eye for sniper perches. The spot he had suggested for me was perfect with a clear shot at over three-quarters of the area surrounding the old factory. I knew he had been trying to insult my skills when he suggested the spot, but I had learned long before that such childish games were unnecessary and often dangerous in the field. If I spent my time trying to trade insults with another person or show off, I was likely to miss something actually important. And so I had set up at the perch without complaint. After a few minutes searching the woods for a better spot, Seamus had joined me as well, giving me a look that clearly told me not to say anything about Patrick's remark. "South or East?" I asked simply. He relaxed slightly.

"East," he told me.

"Niall's got the northwest?"

"He does." Seamus began to set up, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was familiar with the weapon, sliding the rifle together with ease. However, I noticed that he was obviously not military trained. A military sniper was disciplined. He learned to put together a rifle in a specific manner and store it in exactly the same way every time, and he never deviated from that habit. It made him a bit predictable, but it also made him quick and efficient. When I put a gun together as Michael Westen, there was never any hesitation in my actions. Seamus, however, needed to hunt for his scope for a few seconds, and he appeared to debate about which bullets to use for nearly a minute. He would have been dead ten times over in many of the situations I had found myself in over the years.

When he finally finished setting up, he perched his rifle against a convenient flat stone, and we began the waiting game. It was a familiar game to me, one I had played many times both in combat and during my later CIA missions. I was comfortable with the silence, for it gave me time to think and plan my next move. Seamus, however, began fidgeting after only a couple minutes. "What d'ya think's takin' them so long?" he questioned.

"I assume they're waitin' fer Sean an' Kevin," I remarked. "Hard t'breach in two directions wit' only one team." The sarcasm in my tone was not lost on Seamus, and he grunted, likely unwilling to admit that I was correct. We were silent for a couple more minutes, and though I tried to go through the details of my upcoming attempt to find Dougherty's buyers, I found myself distracted, my thoughts returning to the posh London hotel I had walked out of three days before. Dan's contacts in Dublin had fallen through, so I had needed to head to London to drop off the recordings. The trip had given me the opportunity I needed to see Samantha, a chance to at least partially assuage my guilty conscience. I had suggested meeting at a café I knew, but she had insisted on the hotel, claiming that it would make things quicker. I could not refute her claim without revealing the true reason I desired a meeting, so I agreed to the location. As soon as I had walked in the door, she had pressed up against me, and I was surprised to find that I felt nothing. At one point, I truly thought I could have married Samantha—I had not been lying about that. But then Fiona had waltzed into my life, and I realized for the first time what really caring about someone entailed. It was not about finding someone who fit perfectly into your life; it was about finding someone who you wanted to fit into your life in any way possible. Samantha had fit into my life, and I had accepted her there because it was easy. But I had never made space for her.

She had taken the news like she took everything—with a quirk of her lips and a suggestion that that we have sex once more time "for old time's sake." I had refused the offer, for it felt too much like I was cheating on Fiona. Never mind that I had actually cheated on Samantha with Fiona. I did not know if Samantha realized exactly what I had done or not, but she did realize that my heart simply was not in the relationship anymore. In many ways, it never had been. And so when I said goodbye, she let me go without any questions. Our relationship ended just as it had begun—easily.

Seamus's voice interrupted my musings. "So you'n me sister?"

I turned to look at him, hoping my face conveyed the fact that I really did not think it was a good time to be talking about Fiona and my relationship. "What 'bout us?" I questioned.

"Ya're gettin' closer."

"We are," I answered guardedly, hoping I was not going to be lectured about marriage while holding a sniper rifle and waiting for my girlfriend to help rob a British munitions storage facility. I decided I would need to omit a few details about tonight's activities when I told Dan.

"And you'n Aodhan?"

"He's a good lad."

"He seems t'like ya. Actually, ya're all he can talk about anymore. Seems I've been knocked down t'the number two man in his life." The implication made me simultaneously happy and terrified as I wondered exactly what I had gotten myself into.

"Ya can still be his favorite uncle," I suggested.

"I plan t'be. But I'm wonderin' where that leaves ya." I shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Ya know, Aodhan has a lot of uncles. He doesn't really need any more. But he does need somethin' else." I stayed silent, refusing to take the bait. Seamus waited a bit before realizing I was not going to ask a clarifying question. I hoped he would leave the conversation at that, but instead, he clarified. "He needs a father." Father. The word made my stomach clench. I had not had the best experience with my own father. I had, in fact, left home at seventeen to avoid him. I certainly did not feel ready to be a father to anyone else. I was afraid that the scars my own father had left on me were too deep to heal, that history would inevitably repeat itself. I could not let that happen.

I swallowed, forcing my focus to return to the mission. My feelings for Fiona and Aodhan were far too complicated to sort through at the current time. "They're on the move," I told Seamus, watching the dark figures climb the fence through my scope. A few feet away, Seamus returned his attention to his rifle as well, and we both watched and waited, ready to intervene if necessary.

Fortunately, our intervention was not necessary. All four got in clean, and it did not look like they needed to kill any guards either. I breathed a sigh of relief. Though I knew my superiors would not be happy with having me involved in the current heist, they would be even more unhappy if it ended up in bloodshed. Sean appeared a couple minutes after entering, heading to the front gate to meet Dougherty. I let my rifle follow him, alert for any signs of movement, but he appeared to be clear. I began to relax. It was nice to have a plan go smoothly, especially after the last disastrous mission I had participated in.

After a few minutes, we still had not heard from anyone inside the building, and I realized with a sinking feeling that I had celebrated too soon. They were supposed to have called when they got the safe open so that Dougherty and Sean could join them. That should have been at least a minute or more before. I knew safes, and the one that they were supposed to be cracking was relatively easy, especially with a drill point diagram and high-powered drill like Fiona had. Even a halfway decent safecracker could have had it open in two to three minutes. Something was wrong.

I thumbed on my radio. "Fi? What's goin' on in there?" I asked. Seamus shot me a look, for Patrick had given us clear instructions to maintain radio silence whenever possible. I did not bother explaining myself to the younger man. If I was wrong, Patrick could yell at me later. If I was right, there would likely not be a later for Patrick Glenanne.

Her voice came on after a few seconds hesitation. "We're fine, honey," she told me, and my breath caught in my throat at her words. I didn't even hear what she said next over the blood pounding in my ears. Honey. She had called me honey. She had never called me honey before; in fact, she had never called me anything except Michael or McBride. I didn't question it, for I knew she was the type of woman who disliked pet names, and that was fine with me.

I forced my training to take over, letting years of experience clear my head. All was not lost. Her words told me she was in danger, but they also told me that she was alive, and that was something. I just needed to make sure she stayed that way. "Okay, hon. Let me know when ya're ready, and I'll meet ya at the rendezvous point," I said, giving her an out, a piece of information that the captors would want. It might be her only chance of survival.

As soon as my radio clicked off, I put it back on my belt and tossed the rifle aside, assessing the hillside to find the best way down. Seamus glanced over at me. "What the bloody hell is goin' on, McBride? We don't have a rendezvous point."

"Somethin's wrong."

"Nothin's wrong. Ya heard Fi, she's fine. Jes' drillin' the safe like we planned."

"She called me honey, Seamus. Have ya ever heard her call anyone honey?" I found my route, a clearing between the trees that followed the contour of the hill well enough that I likely would not end up sliding on my ass all the way to the bottom. A clattering sound behind me told me that Seamus had finally realized the seriousness of the situation and was planning on joining me. "No, stay here, Seamus. I don't know how bad it is, so we may be comin' out hot. If that's the case, I'll need ya t'lay down cover fire."

"Tis my sister, brother, and friend in there, McBride!"

"An' I'm goin' t'get them out. But I need ya here t'do it." I could not argue longer with him; every second wasted was one more second that they had Fiona. Leaning back to keep myself from toppling forward, I began the rather treacherous descent. Though I slid a few feet on the icy ground at one point, I managed to keep myself from falling, and I reached the fence line less than a minute after I had started. I scrambled over the fence quickly, racing toward the back door of the building since it was closest. Though I had briefly considered running to the front to try and flag down Sean, I dismissed the idea, for it would waste time I did not have. I would have to handle the situation myself. It would not be the first time, and I doubted it would be the last.

The door was fortunately still open, so I did not even need to stop and pick the lock. Once I stepped inside, I turned toward the room with the safe, silently thanking whatever higher power might exist that I had insisted on examining the blueprints despite the fact that I was providing backup. Patrick had not been thrilled with my insistence, but I imagined he would be more receptive to it in the future if I was able to save his life now. Of course, that was a big if.

I drew my gun as I approached the room, thumbing off the safety. The sound was preternaturally loud in the large, empty space, and I flinched involuntarily. Carefully, I crept forward, pausing outside the closed door of the safe room. I pressed my ear to the door to assess the situation, and my blood boiled as I heard a low British voice detail some of the horrible things he was planning to do to Fiona. Once more, I forced myself to calm down, reminding the part of me screaming for blood that many of the things he was talking about needed Fiona to be alive. That meant I still had time to save her, but if I entered without thinking straight, I would just get us both killed.

I listened a moment longer, hoping to gain more information, but I only heard the one voice. I doubted he was the only captor however; one man could not have taken down Fiona, Patrick, and Kevin by himself. I suspected there were at least three, possibly more, and I guessed they had guns to the heads of the captured republicans. That did not give me many options; in fact, I could only think of one—surprise. They did not know I was there, and if I burst into the room with sufficient fanfare, perhaps they would turn their guns to the new threat instead of the men and woman they had captured. It was a big risk, but it was truly my only option.

With that thought in mind, I stepped back and gripped the door handle. Silently counting to three, I brought my gun up, trying to train it on the voice. Once I hit three, I threw open the door, my eyes quickly sweeping the room. I counted four British soldiers who all turned toward the noise, and it was only my quick reflexes that saved me. I grabbed the gun hand of the nearest one, forcing his shot into the ceiling and spinning him around so that he provided a human shield just as his three companions opened fire on me. I felt a brief pang of regret as his full weight fell back into me, indicating at least one of the dozen holes that now littered his body was lethal, but I did not have time to dwell on it. There were still three other British soldiers to contend with.

I dropped the man to the floor as I pointed my own gun at the soldier who held Fiona. My bullet passed cleanly through his hand, causing his gun to clatter to the floor. I switched targets without waiting for his reaction, hitting the next man in his upper thigh. He cried out in pain as he crumpled to the ground. When I turned to the fourth man, I saw that Patrick had already taken care of him, twisting his arm behind his back as he kicked his gun away. I relaxed slightly, my eyes briefly travelling over Kevin's unharmed form before they moved to Fiona. Her hair had escaped the tie that held it and was sticking out at odd angles, and blood covered one side of her face, indicating that she had not escaped harm. However, she was standing on her own two feet and pointing her captor's weapon at his heart, so I knew it could have been worse. "Are ya okay?" I asked her, stepping closer. From my new position, I could see that the bastard had torn her shirt, leaving half of it hanging near her waist, exposing her bra. I barely suppressed the rage that realization brought.

"I'm fine, Michael. Thought I told ya t'get out of here."

"Actually, ya jes' told me ya were in danger. Figured it was my decision what to do wit' that information." I glanced down at the man on the floor in front of her who was still holding his bleeding hand, his face contorted in pain. Fiona cocked her head to the side, contemplating him for a moment. She seemed to come to some sort of decision after a few seconds and kicked his hand, causing him to scream in agony. A small smirk appeared on her lips.

"C'mon, Fi, let's tie the bastard up," Patrick said, appearing behind me. I glanced back to see that he and Kevin had already bound and gagged the other two soldiers. The fourth still lay motionless on the ground, no longer a threat.

"No need t'do that if he's dead."

"Fi," I said, a note of warning in my voice. It was one thing to use a man to protect yourself such that his friends killed him in the process. It was another entirely to kill an unarmed man in cold blood.

"Ya didn't hear what the bastard said, McBride," Fiona said. I heard a slight waver in her normally strong, confident voice, and I realized the ordeal had affected her more than I thought. "He doesn't deserve t'live."

"That's not yar decision, Fi," I told her.

"Then who the hell makes the decision?" she shouted suddenly, turning to me. I saw unshed tears glistening in her eyes. "Because whoever tis is doin' a shitty job o'it."

"Fi." I stepped closer and put both my hands over hers on the gun, pushing it down. She gave little resistance, and I knew she was close to her breaking point. Carefully, I took the weapon from her and set it aside before pulling her into my arms. She was crying fully by that point, sniffing into my shirt. And though I had never been good with crying women—or, indeed, emotional women in general, I soothed her nevertheless. "Shh, Fi, it's okay. I'm here. I've got ya," I whispered, letting my hand make gentle passes down her back. Over her shoulder, I nodded at Patrick and Kevin who immediately grabbed the third living soldier and drug him over to his friends. I heard him yell in pain once more, and I knew they had been less than gentle with his injured hand.

After a minute or so, Fiona's sobs began to lessen though she continued to cling to me. I let her, for I certainly was not going to object to keeping her in my arms as long as I could. "I'll radio Sean an' Finn, have them bring the truck 'round," Patrick said. "We'll do a quick load o'some o'the weapons and then get out o'here 'fore any more of their feckin' friends come around."

"No!" Fiona said, surprising us all as she pulled away from me. "We're goin' t'get the money."

"Fi, you saw yarself that we had the wrong diagram. The weapons we decide t'sell will fetch a good price, and we can probably use some o'them fer an upcomin' campaign."

"No, I still have the C4," Fiona insisted, moving back to the safe. I took a good look at the safe for the first time, and my eyes went wide when I saw the large block of plastic explosive by the lock.

"Fi, that's likely t'blow up everything in the safe along wit' us," I reasoned.

However, she was far past being reasonable. "I know explosives, Michael," she told me. "Tis just enough to make a good-sized hole in the safe. It may ruin some o'the stuff inside, but we'll be fine." She reached for the detonator, but I stopped her before her hand closed over it, wrapping both my arms around her tightly. She began struggling immediately, but my size gave me the advantage.

"Fi. Fi. Fiona!" I shouted. "Calm down. Whatever's in that safe is not worth our lives."

"Tis not for us t'decide, Michael. There's blood money in there, money that doesn't belong t'the British bastards who took it." She had a fire in her eyes as she spoke, and I knew there would be no dissuading her. I sighed, glancing at the safe. It was an older model, and that made it vulnerable to more than just drill point diagrams. I was a decent enough safe-cracker, having developed the skill during my training and honed it over time since it often came in handy on my missions.

"Alright. We'll crack the safe." I saw her eyes light up, and she stopped struggling. Beside me, I sensed Patrick shuffle his feet in agitation, obviously unhappy with the idea of blowing up a safe in a confined area. I shared his reluctance, so I continued. "But we're doin' it me own way."

"Ya're way? What's that, McBride? Glare at it 'til it opens?" she challenged. Despite her words, I sensed that she was curious what I had planned, and I tentatively loosened my hold. When she did not immediately reach for the detonator, I removed my arms from around her.

"Get me that speaker," I instructed, pointing to a small computer speaker on the desk at one end of the room. Kevin moved to do as I asked, but both Glenanne siblings stared at me in confusion.

"Ya plannin' t'do some dancin', McBride? Because I'm not really in the mood," Patrick remarked.

"If I wanted t'dance, Patrick, it wouldn't be wit' you," I informed him. Kevin handed me the speaker, and I quickly disassembled it, forming a crude but usable microphone. I took the duct tape from my pack and taped it to the front of the safe before kneeling in front of the safe and beginning to turn the knob slowly, listening for the telltale click of the disks falling into place. With the sound amplified by my jerry-rigged speaker, it was easy to hear.

"So ya're an electrician an' a safe-cracker. Ya're a man o'mystery, McBride. Did the Irish army teach ya that?" Patrick sounded impressed despite himself, but his tone had an undercurrent of suspicion as well. Upon hearing the question, my hand paused briefly and nearly slipped from the dial. In my eagerness to prevent Fiona from blowing us all to kingdom come, I had completely forgotten that though Michael Westen could crack most safes with ease, Michael McBride had no reason for such talents. I needed to think of one quickly.

"Not the army," I said casually, hoping he had not noticed my pause. "I s'pose ye could say me pa taught me. Used to come home fluthered mos' nights, so I learned t'get into his safe so I could get money fer me mam and I to eat. He kept changin' the combination t'stop me, so I got good at crackin' it." The last disk clicked into place, and I pulled open the door triumphantly. I saw numerous stacks of bills inside, easily a few hundred thousand pounds. In addition, there were a few black duffels stuffed beneath them. I eyed them suspiciously. "What's in the bags?"

"Don't know," Patrick said, pulling out the first one. When he opened it, he cursed. "Sneatcha," he remarked. Despite my study of Irish culture, I did not recognize the word, so I peeked closer. Cocaine. Given the size of the brick, it was at least a kilogram. "Bloody bastards. I kept wonderin' how everyone kept gettin' it even though the police said they were crackin' down. S'pose I should've expected the British wankers would be behind it." He glanced at the bags still in the safe. "Grab it all," he finally said. "Bring it t'the front wit' the money."

"Pat, what're we goin' t'do with a load of sneatcha?" Kevin questioned.

"Dump it," Patrick answered immediately. "I don't want it on the streets. We'll toss it into the Irish Sea." He zipped up the bag he held and reached into the safe for another.

"We should leave one," I told him.

Patrick rounded on me. "McBride, I'm grateful t'ya fer helpin' us out when we were in a tough spot an' crackin' the safe, but I'm not leavin' these bastards wit' their stash."

"Not the whole stash. Jes' one. Ya know when the rest of the army comes, there'll be questions about what happened here. If we take everythin', it's jes' a robbery. They won't look closer. But if we leave a brick of. . . sneatcha," I stumbled a bit over the new word, but no one appeared to notice, "they'll start askin' questions. Probably look at that computer, too, which I bet details their operations." Patrick studied me carefully, and I could see he was warming to the idea. Finally, he nodded.

"Leave one bag. Take the rest." We all moved to obey, carrying it to the front of the storehouse. Patrick radioed Sean and Finn who immediately began to ask what had happened. Patrick cut them off, explaining that everyone was fine and he could get into more details later. They asked no more questions, instead promising to meet us soon. As we carried out some of the bags, I glanced over at Fiona. Her jaw was set, and her eyes had a haunted look that frightened me.

"Fi," I started, but she cut me off.

"I'm fine, Michael. I jes' want t'get out o'here." I held my tongue, deciding it would not be wise to mention that her insistence on cracking the safe was the reason we stayed as long as we had. We finished emptying the safe just as Sean and Dougherty pulled up to the front door, and Sean's expression grew puzzled when he saw the multitude of bags we had stacked up to load.

"Didn't realize they had stolen that much money," he remarked.

"It's not money," Patrick told him. Sean had already opened the bag to learn for himself what was in it, and his eyes went wide when he saw the white powder.

"Sneatcha?"

"Seems they had quite the side business."

"What're we goin' t'do with a few dozen kilograms of sneatcha?" Sean asked.

"Dump 'em. Think ya can handle that, Finn?" Dougherty nodded. Since I was watching him carefully, I caught the entrepreneurial gleam in his eye though the rest of the group seemed too focused on loading the van to notice. The realization gave me an idea. When I next walked over to gather some of the weapons, I quickly shed my pack and began to dig through it for the trackers I had placed there earlier on the off chance I might need them. I found them quickly and stowed them in my pocket before grabbing the nearby crate of munitions and carrying it to the van. Once there, I grabbed the nearest bag of cocaine and unzipped it.

"What're ya doin', McBride?" Sean asked, appearing suddenly beside me.

"Jes' checkin' fer trackers. If I were them, I wouldn't leave this much product sittin' around wit'out some way to retrieve it if somethin' went wrong."

"Doesn't matter if there's trackers. They won't be much use on the bottom o'the sea."

"It'll take some time t'get 'em there. I jes' want t'make sure they don't get intercepted en route. But if ya want t'take the chance, fine by me." Sean stared at me for a moment before reaching for the bag next to mine. I smiled inwardly, glad he had taken the bait. Surreptitiously, I slipped my hand in my pocket and removed one of my own tracking devices, tucking it under the drugs before zipping the bag shut. I appreciated the irony of the action. Ideally, I would have been able to track all of the bags, for I doubted they were going to the same supplier, but I would have to settle for tracking the ones I could. I had not brought enough tracking devices anyway.

After Sean and I declared the bags "clean," we helped load the rest of the cargo in the van. I was somewhat surprised to note that Dougherty was not as dumb as he first appeared—he had obviously outfitted the van for the heavy load, and it barely sagged under the weight of the guns. Once satisfied everything was loaded, Patrick shut the doors and turned to Sean and Dougherty. "Dump the drugs first," he instructed. "McBride's right; they're hot and could easily get us caught. Then spread the rest of the stuff 'round the main three safehouses."

"Will do," Sean agreed, moving to the passenger side of the car.

"Ya sure ya want t'come, Sean?" Dougherty called, confirming my suspicions. "Tis a long way t'the ocean. I'm sure McKenzie would be happy t'have ya home earlier, and I don't mind makin' the deliveries meself." Sean hesitated, glancing at Patrick for confirmation. Sensing he needed the eldest Glenanne on his side if he wanted to enact his plan, Dougherty turned to Patrick. "I know ya've got guys at all the safehouses who'll tell ya the minute I get there," he remarked. "What're ya worried 'bout? Let Sean get home t'his wife. Not like I have anyone waitin' fer me."

"Alright," Patrick finally agreed. He stepped closer to Dougherty, his eyes ablaze. "You'd do well t'remember what happens t'men who cross me," he remarked.

"I remember," Dougherty said. "Jaysus, Pat, we've been friends fer years. Ya think ya'd trust me by now." Dougherty gave a smile that did not reach his eyes, and Patrick continued to stare stonily at him. Inwardly, I applauded Patrick's instincts. It was easy to see why he made such an effective leader. I briefly wondered what would happen if he ever discovered my duplicity, but I pushed that thought away as quickly as it had come. I would not allow that to happen.

"Jes' go," Patrick finally said, turning away. Dougherty climbed in the van and drove off, and the rest of us began the trek back to our cars.

Fiona was silent for the entire drive to my apartment, obviously still lost in thought about what had happened with the British soldier. I tried to talk a couple times, but she gave only perfunctory answers, so I fell silent. Having heard part of what he said, I understood why she was upset, but something told me there was a deeper reason behind her silence. I did not press the issue, however, knowing she would tell me if and when she was ready.

We stopped outside my apartment, and she left the car running. "D'ya want t'stay?" I offered.

She shook her head. "I don't. Aodhan's wit' me mam, so I'll stay there."

I was grateful she would not be alone at least. "D'ya want me t'drive ya?"

"No. I'm fine. I'll see you later, Michael." Knowing I had been dismissed, I exited the car. She pulled away from the curb as soon as I stepped out, and I watched her go until her taillights were no longer visible.

I did not sleep well that night, and part of me knew it was because I was still worried about Fiona. I ran hard the following morning, trying to use the exercise as a way to decrease the tension I felt, but it did not help. Eventually, I gave up, knowing my screaming muscles needed a rest. I showered and then called Dan to report on what had happened the previous night. At least if I could not help Fiona, I could make progress on the mission.

"You've been a busy man, Michael," Dan remarked when he picked up.

"What makes you say that?" It was a typical answer for me, one that did not offer any information but instead attempted to gauge what the other person knew.

"Nearly two hundred thousand pounds worth of weapons stolen from a British munitions storage facility. Ring any bells?"

"I think I might have heard about something like that."

"Seems it was a Glenanne family special though one of the soldiers mentioned an unfamiliar face, a man he claims brought down three armed soldiers without a single injury to himself. Killed one of them, in fact."

"You should check your facts more closely, Dan. The bullets in the dead man were from the other soldiers' guns."

"A human shield. One of your favorite tactics, if I recall. I've never seen anyone quite as good at it as you are." I stayed silent, knowing Dan did not really expect a response. "Michael, as a friend, I have to warn you that the bosses are getting restless, and your little escapade last night is not going to help matters. They're ready to end the whole operation."

"I needed to do the job last night to sell my cover. I saved Patrick Glenanne's life. He's the kind of man who isn't going to forget that easily. You know that sometimes, we need to do some bad things in order to achieve a greater good."

"Sometimes, yes, but I worry that you've lost sight of what that good is."

"The men last night were dirty soldiers, Dan. There were a couple dozen kilograms of cocaine in their safe along with a few hundred thousand pounds they had earned by terrorizing citizens. Have the British military check their computer. I'm sure the details are there."

"Oh, they did already, and the soldiers will be reprimanded. But we didn't put you in Ireland to play Robin Hood, Michael. You are supposed to be going after the bad guys we tell you to go after not anyone who happens to suit your fancy."

"I did. Dougherty took the cocaine. He claims he was going to dump it, but I think he's going to try and sell it to his buyers instead. I got trackers in half a dozen of the bags."

"And the guns?"

"I haven't found his stash yet, but these things take time, Dan. You know that."

Dan sighed. "Finding his cocaine buyers will help, Michael, but we really need to know where he's shipping his guns. That's your mission."

"I know. I'm working on it."

"Well, work faster. Men who put guns in the hands of child militias make everyone in upper management a little hot under the collar." With that, Dan hung up. I contemplated the phone for a few minutes, trying to decide on what my next move should be.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 (Fiona)**

After everything the British soldier had suggested he would do to me, I knew the nightmares would come which was one of the reasons I refused Michael's offer to let me stay over. And so I had driven back to my apartment despite my assertion that I was going to my mother's house, for I did not want anyone around to hear me scream. And scream I did, so loudly that my neighbor thumped on the wall and told us to keep it down. I reigned in my emotions after that, taking gulping breaths of air to calm my beating heart. Flashes of my nightmare still ran through my mind, startling in their clarity and because of the fact that they were all too real. I saw the men surrounding Honor, watched as they ripped off her clothes and gang-raped her, all while I was bound so tightly I could not move. I then watched as they rounded on me, a glint in their eye that made me think for the first time since I was a child that perhaps Satan was real and did direct our actions if we let him.

I shook the images from my mind, reminding myself that they had gone no further than tearing off my clothes before my brothers had found me. They had run like the cowards they were, and though the Glenanne men had wanted to give chase, I had stopped them. I wanted to fight my own battles, to right the wrongs inflicted on me by myself. I needed to prove that I was strong enough to strike back. My brothers understood me well enough to realize what I wanted, and they relented. After that, the hunted became the hunter. I located every single one of the men who had wronged me and ensured that they all paid for their crimes. My actions did not help me erase the memories, but they did make me stronger, and once I was done, I resolved to never become the victim again. Up until the previous night, I had kept that promise to myself.

I slipped out of bed, knowing I needed to confront my demons if I wanted them to leave me alone. Slowly, I called up each attacker's face in my mind. It was easy to do, for they would be forever burned in my memory. Instead of remembering them as they were in the alley that fateful night, however, I remembered them as they were when they realized that they were going to die and it would not be quick and painless. I allowed myself the satisfaction of reliving the moment when I erased each small foothold Satan had established through the men. By the end of my recollections, my breathing had returned to normal, and I was starting to feel more like myself. I padded to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk, placing it in the microwave. As it turned slowly, I reminded myself that I was a different person now than I was back then, older and wiser and stronger. I could take care of myself. Even if Michael had not shown up when he did the previous night, there were plenty of options open to me. The soldier who had held me captive was obviously cocky, too sure of himself to last for long when facing a skilled operative. I could have used that, waited until he let his guard down and grabbed his gun. Or maybe I could have turned the tables on him, seduced him and then waited until he literally had his pants down and was vulnerable before striking.

The possibilities comforted me and chased away the last vestiges of the nightmare. When the microwave beeped, I removed the milk and poured a generous shot of whiskey into the mug before bringing it to my lips. It slid smoothly down my throat, and it was not long at all before I began to grow drowsy again. I set the cup in the sink to wash the next morning as I walked back to my bedroom. This time when I shut my eyes, it was another man's face which appeared in my dreams. Where the others eyes were cold, his were warm and caring, filled with concern for me. Lulled by those eyes and the whiskey and warm milk in my stomach, I fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

I slept in the following morning, my interrupted slumber the previous night catching up to me. After a quick workout, I drove to my mother's house where Aodhan greeted me happily, pushing a piece of paper towards me. I recognized it as an Aodhan Glenanne masterpiece, and I gave it the appropriate praise before instructing him to set it by my purse so we could take it home and hang it on the fridge next to similar artwork later that night. He happily traipsed over to do as I asked, and my mother approached, a knowing smile on her face. I had seen that look before, and I had a sneaking suspicion about where the conversation was going. "I heard yar fella was quite the hero last night. Again. Seems I owe him fer savin' the lives o'most of my children now."

"He helped us get out o'a tight spot," I agreed.

"Pat seems t'think he's a decent man." I startled a bit at that statement. "Decent man" was high praise coming from my normally stoic brother.

"He is at that."

"And Aodhan adores him."

I sighed. "Mam, please don't be pickin' out a color scheme jes' yet. Give us a few months to see where things go, and then we'll see."

"I can do that. But jes' so ya know, I think you'd make a perfect summer bride." I groaned.

Over the next three weeks, I realized just how much Michael had wormed his way into my life and the life of my son. My mother insisted on having him to Sunday brunch each week and, when he mentioned that he and his mother did not really celebrate Christmas together, she insisted on having him to our house for what was typically a family celebration. To his credit, he did glance over at me for confirmation before agreeing.

He put on an extra dose of charm at Christmas, arriving with presents for all the members of my family, even my myriad of nieces and nephews that he still tried to avoid. He had admittedly asked me for suggestions for some of my family members, but he had managed to pick out a track for Aodhan's plastic cars and a beautiful H&K USP for me. I had half-heartedly protested the expense at first, but he had assured me with a twinkle in his eyes that he had plenty of money, having come into a windfall recently. I grinned at that statement, knowing Patrick had been more than generous when it came to paying him for his help on our last job.

After the rest of my family had dispersed to enjoy their gifts, he had tugged me back into his lap. "Got one more present fer ya," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He extracted a small box and pressed it into my hands. I knew it could only be jewelry, and my heart caught in my throat as I studied it. No man had ever given me jewelry before. Most seemed to think I would prefer a more practical gift, like the pistol Michael had given me earlier. And while I did like practical gifts, I also appreciated the finer things in life.

Carefully, I tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a small jewelry box. I cracked it open and pulled out the silver charm bracelet inside. A single charm dangled from it—a tiny replica of the pistol I had earlier unwrapped. I began to laugh as I held it up. "Where did ya find this, Michael?" I questioned.

He smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself for picking something I liked. "I found a guy who would make whatever ya want. Didn't even blink twice when I set the pistol on the counter, so I figured he's probably had stranger requests." I laughed harder and kissed him soundly for his effort. When I finally pulled away, I held out my wrist, and he fastened the charm bracelet there before pressing a kiss to the skin. Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other. For the first time, I began to wonder if my mother was not too far off with her talk of a summer wedding.

Just after the New Year, I walked into the Salty Dog Pub to a much different scene than the one I had faced a few weeks before. Michael was once more sitting at the bar, but this time he had a circle of men around him. I recognized my younger brother immediately as well as a couple of the others who were friends of his. Seamus saw me first, and he hailed me in a loud voice that told me he had already have a few drinks. "Fiona! There ya are! Come join us." Cautiously, I approached.

"Fiona." Michael's grin was a sloppy, and I realized he was inebriated, even more than he had been after his first Sunday brunch. "Ya're here!"

"How much have ya had, Michael?"

He waggled a hand back and forth, and his whole body swayed slightly with the motion. "Don't really know. Four, mebbe five. Mebbe more." He appeared to seriously consider for a moment, and I sighed. During the weeks I had known McBride, I had learned that he was not as heavy a drinker as most Irishmen. Personally, I did not mind, for it meant that he was generally at my flat at night instead of off drinking himself into a stupor at the local pub like many of the men I knew. However, it did mean that his tolerance was low, and a drinking contest with my brother was sure to get him intoxicated in a hurry.

"Seamus, what did ya do?" I questioned, hoping that my brother might still be sober enough to answer since I was obviously not going to get any information from Michael.

"Nothin'," Seamus insisted, a wide grin on his face. "Jes' a friendly competition among brothers." I paused briefly at hearing the term, realizing that it was not just my life that Michael had wormed his way into. My brothers all seemed to have come to accept him as part of their family as well, obviously hoping that I would one day make it official.

"Ya know he can't handle his liquor like ya can," I chastised, grabbing Michael by the shoulder to keep him from falling off the barstool. I glanced around to Seamus's friends until I found one who looked like he could stand up straight. "Tomas, help me get him t'me car." Immediately, Tomas moved to do as I asked, and together, we helped Michael to his feet. I nodded in thanks to Brian who had called me earlier to have me retrieve my inebriated boyfriend. Slowly, Tomas and I made our way out with Michael between us. The intoxicated man began to sing as we reached the door, a tune I did not recognize but one which made me chuckle nevertheless. Tomas shared a look with me as we half-carried, half-drug Michael through the doorway.

Just after we deposited him in the front seat of my car, a voice whispered my name. "Fiona Glenanne." I whirled around, my hand dropping to my gun, but the voice spoke again before I could draw the weapon. "Tis Liam O'Reilly." I relaxed slightly as I recognized both the voice and the name. Liam was one of our informants, a man who had risked his life to gain a position with the loyalists so that he could report their activities to us.

"Liam, what are ya doin' here?" I asked. "If anyone sees ya, they'll kill ya."

"I know, but I had t'tell someone. I couldn't wait fer a meetin'. I was goin' t'tell Seamus, but he's not in the right state o'mind fer the news now." I snorted at the understatement in those words, glancing back into the pub to see my brother down a pint of Guinness as his friends shouted encouragement. Liam stepped out of the shadows, his eyes darting from side to side worriedly.

"What's this about, Liam?"

"There's a raid planned fer tomorrow. A big one on the east side. They say they're lookin' fer anyone wit' illegal weapons they might be usin' t'avoid the ceasefire, but. . ." He trailed off, but I knew how the sentence ended. The British were looking for any excuse to rough up a few republicans, using them as an example for anyone else who would consider opposing them.

"I'll tell Pat," I assured Liam. "Thanks fer lettin' us know. D'ya need anythin'?"

Liam shook his head. "What Pat gives at the normal drop is more than enough."

"Okay. Slan, Liam." He nodded, eyes darting to the side once more before he dropped back into the shadows. I glanced at Michael whose head was lolling against the door of my car. I needed to get him home and call Pat quickly. We did not have much time to put together an opposition force.

Getting Michael up the stairs to my flat proved challenging, but I managed to prod him into walking mostly on his own, and he stumbled up to my second-floor flat. Once I entered, I quickly thanked the neighbor who had agreed to watch Aodhan on short notice before guiding a swaying Michael back to my bedroom. He collapsed on top of the duvet fully-clothed, and I left him there for the moment, knowing I needed to pass on Liam's news as quickly as possible.

Patrick answered on the second ring, and though I had likely woken him, his voice was clear and steady. "Fiona. Tis late enough t'mean somethin's wrong," he guessed.

"I just talked t'Liam O'Neill. He said the loyalists are plannin' a raid on the east side tomorrow night. Didn't say what time, but tis a big one."

"Fuck!" I heard movement on the other end, and I guessed that Patrick was getting out of bed, his mind already working through what he needed to do. "I assume we can count ya in, Fi?" he asked.

"Ya can," I agreed instantly.

"An' McBride?"

"I need him t'stay with Aodhan."

"Aodhan can come here, Fi. He'll be safe."

"No, Pat. I want McBride wit' him. That's non-negotiable."

"Okay," Pat agreed. He sighed, and I imagined him running a hand down his face, a typical habit of his when he was thinking hard. "I should be able to find a few more men. Most of 'em are probably in bed right now though." I could almost hear the cogs in his head turning over the phone.

"I'll make some calls in the mornin' as well," I promised.

"Okay. Thanks fer callin'." I heard the dial tone as he hung up, and I turned back to my drunken boyfriend, contemplating how to best remove his clothing.

Michael woke about an hour after we fell asleep and ran immediately to the bathroom where his stomach proceeded to purge itself of all the alcohol he had consumed. I was not too surprised, and I lay awake and listened until it sounded like he had finished. I had never been a fan of dealing with vomit. When he finally seemed to stop, I slipped out of bed and grabbed a glass from the kitchen. After filling it with water, I carried it into the bathroom for him. I found him sitting on the floor, his head tipped back against the wall. He blinked up at me blearily as I walked in. "How much did I drink?" he questioned, taking the glass from my hands.

"Too much," I answered.

"Remind me not t'do that again." He drained the glass, and I refilled it, knowing he needed the water. He sipped the second glass more slowly, his eyes growing more focused as he drank. "How'd I get here?" he finally asked.

"Tomas helped me put ya in the car, but then I made ya stumble yar sorry ass up t'the apartment once ya got here," I told him. His expression turned sheepish. "Jaysus, Michael, what were ya thinkin'? Ya know Seamus could drink ya into a corner and still have enough left in him t'do a pub crawl."

"I know. Didn't leave me much choice though. Thought I could get around it by waterin' down my drinks or not finishin' 'em, but he was watchin' me like a hawk. Not much I could do."

"Ya coulda said no, that yar girlfriend prefers ya not t'die of alcohol poisoning."

"I'm not goin' t'die," he protested.

"Only because yar stomach is smart enough t'know when ya've had too much." He groaned at that, and I grinned triumphantly. "I'm goin' back t'bed. Ya probably have another hour or so in here 'fore ya can join me." He mustered up enough strength to glare at me, but I simply grinned back before leaving the bathroom. In another couple minutes, a groan and a splash told me that I was correct in my assessment, and I felt slightly vindicated. Hopefully this experience would teach him not to take my brother's challenges again.

I woke first the following morning, an unusual occurrence since Michael was generally an early riser. However, I knew the previous night had taken a toll on him, so I left him a glass of water and an aspirin on his nightstand and went to check on my son. Aodhan still slept soundly, the sheet twisted around his small body. I stepped into the room to smooth it out, knowing even as I did that he would inevitably twist it up again in a few minutes. When I had finished, I stood back and watched him for a moment, wondering, as I often did, if I was doing the right thing by him. I knew he was too young to understand why I was fighting, to comprehend the nuances of politics that led me to put myself in danger over and over. I had not understood it either when I was his age, but my father had continued fighting nevertheless, and I liked to think that we were all better for it.

Shaking those thoughts from my head, I walked to the kitchen to make myself a quick breakfast. I was just finishing up a bowl of cereal when Aodhan stumbled in, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Would you like some cereal, a stor?" I asked him. He nodded, yawning broadly. I helped him into a seat and poured him a bowl of cereal before finishing up some cleaning I had not had a chance to do the night before. I was just washing the last of the dishes when Michael entered the room wearing a pair of sweats and no shirt. I noticed immediately that the sweats were not the pants he had been wearing the previous night, and I wondered just how much clothing he had brought to my flat. "Morning," I greeted, making my voice a bit louder than usual. He glared at me through red-rimmed eyes.

"Good morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I hope that aspirin kicks in soon." I chuckled at that as he busied himself preparing breakfast. He was quite comfortable in my kitchen, quickly finding the eggs, a frying pan, a loaf of bread, and a toaster. In a few minutes, he had breakfast in front of him and was consuming it at a languorous pace, obviously still somewhat in pain. As was his custom, Aodhan kept up a steady stream of chatter, and I smiled as I saw Michael wince more than once at the boy's volume. He would certainly be thinking twice before drinking so much ever again.

I took pity on Michael after breakfast, and we spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in my apartment playing various board games with Aodhan. By mid-afternoon, Michael seemed to be mostly recovered, and I knew I needed to begin preparing for our defense against the raid that night. I had not told him about my part in the raid yet since I knew he would not be happy with my involvement and my insistence that he not be involved, but I could delay no longer. I did at least wait until Aodhan was napping so we could talk in private. "Somethin's wrong," Michael observed when I emerged from Aodhan's bedroom.

"What makes ya say that?" I questioned, a bit flustered. I hated how well he could read me.

"Ya've been unusually quiet the last two hours, and ya keep lookin' over at me like ya're worried about somethin'. So what is it?"

"I heard last night that the British have planned a raid on one of our neighborhoods t'night. Pat's puttin' together a group t'stop them."

"And ya want t'be a part o'it?"

"I do."

He peered at me carefully for a moment before sighing. "I s'pose I should go back t'me flat for me second gun," he finally said.

I shook my head. "I need someone here t'watch Aodhan. I'll be fine wit'out ya."

"Why can't he stay wit' yar mother or sisters-in-law?"

"I jes' have a bad feelin' 'bout this one. He'll be safer wit' ya."

"If ya have a bad feelin', why are ya goin'?"

"Someone has to protect the people in the neighborhood they're raidin'. It's known republican-friendly, but tis mostly women and children. I don't trust the British bastards t'leave them all alone."

He frowned as he began pacing the small living room. I watched, remaining silent as I waited for him to come to the only logical conclusion. Finally, he turned to face me with a sigh. "I'll do it. I don't like it, but I'll do it."

"Thank you." The words were surprisingly easy to say though I was not used to the idea of relying on anyone else. He simply nodded curtly, his blue eyes troubled. "I should get ready," I said, turning away from him before I could change my mind. I knew that I was making the right decision and, if he thought about it for a few minutes, he knew so as well.

I was standing at the window putting on my Kevlar vest when I felt his hands on my sides. I turned slightly and lifted my hair, allowing him to fasten the Velcro straps on the side of the vest. He did so silently, his motions automatic. He was obviously deep in thought. When he finally finished attaching both sides, he moved his hands forward, holding me close as he pressed his lips to my head. "Why are ya so quiet?" I questioned.

"I don't like the idea of people shootin' at ya," he remarked, staring out the window.

"Ya're worried."

"Ya're not?"

"One thing ya will learn about me, Michael McBride. I don't worry. Not since I was a little girl." I sighed and sat down, ready to share another small piece of my history with the man that had slowly stolen my heart. It came surprisingly easy, an unusual occurrence for me, for I was typically very cautious about what I shared with others. "When I was younger, me father wanted t'protect his family and their beliefs, no matter what. I watched him get beaten and shot at. But if he was afraid, he never showed it. He always said, 'there's a difference between livin' an' livin' free.' O'course, livin' with honor, it only put us in more danger. My father, he came up with a plan to warn us if he knew trouble was brewin'. He'd say, 'Fiona. Time t'be brave, little angel.'"

"Time t'be brave little angel?"

"I suppose it was a code of sorts. What it really meant was, 'Get down on the floor, close your eyes, and start prayin' 'til it's over.'" He gave me a small smile, and I returned it with one of my own, crossing to press a kiss to his lips. Sometimes, he reminded me quite forcibly of my father. They both had the same quiet determination to do what they felt was right no matter the cost to themselves. It had gotten my father killed in the end; I only hoped that Michael would not suffer the same fate.

Both of us were reluctant to release each other, but eventually, I needed to leave. Before I did, Michael caught me around the waist and pressed a final, almost desperate kiss to my lips. When we finally parted, he let his hands linger on my waist for a few moments before finally turning away. "Slan," he said, his words so soft that I almost didn't hear them. I closed my eyes briefly for a moment, letting myself gain control of the unexpected emotions the simple word evoked, before leaving.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 (Michael)**

After Fiona left, I busied myself for a bit by cleaning my gun. I then proceeded to put away the now-dry breakfast dishes and pick up some of the toys Fiona had not gathered earlier. After finishing those chores, I glanced at the clock and noted that Aodhan would sleep for at least another twenty minutes, perhaps more given the fact that we had spent three hours the previous day playing soccer which seemed to wear him out more the day after while somehow increasing his energy the day we played. Fiona claimed it was normal for a child, and I took her word for it, knowing she had much more experience in the area than I did. Of course, I was rapidly gaining experience that I had never expected by spending time with Aodhan—two months before, I would have laughed at the thought that I would know the sleeping habits of a four-year-old boy so well.

Since I could not sit still for long, I decided to use the time until Aodhan woke up to call Dan. I had not had much chance to communicate with my handler in the past few weeks since Fiona and I had begun spending most of our time together, so I knew he would be anxious to hear from me. Indeed, it proved to be the case, and he picked up after the first ring. "Michael. I was beginning to think you had forgotten my number."

"Just haven't had time alone to call."

"Michael, I know deep cover missions are hard, but if you're getting too close to this, you need to step away. We can't afford to screw this one up."

"I'm fine, Dan. What have you learned from the tracking data?"

"Not much. We picked up two small-time drug dealers in the Middle East, but they weren't involved in any sort of weapons smuggling. Seems Dougherty likes to keep his businesses separate."

"And all of the cocaine went to them?"

"Not all. Two of the trackers have been stationary since you placed them in an industrial area west of Belfast. I'm guessing a storehouse of some kind. I'm working on getting a team in place to see if we'll get lucky, but if he keeps storage separate as well, we're SOL."

"What about his cellphone?"

"Tracker went dead a week and a half ago. I'm guessing the bug did, too, which you would know if you weren't so busy with your asset. Dougherty's more careful than we gave him credit for—the phone was likely a burner that he's since deactivated."

"Dammit," I cursed, automatically keeping my voice soft despite my emotions, conscious of the sleeping child in the next room. "Did we get anything from the tracker before it went dead?"

"A few trips to another area north of the city. Possibly another warehouse but we weren't able to pinpoint the location since he moved fairly frequently. I think the western location is our best initial move since we at least have a precise location."

I closed my eyes as I clenched my fists, reining in my emotions. I had expected better news than I was hearing, and I knew if it did not get better, they would pull me out of Ireland. I could not let that happen, not yet, not with everything still so new with Fiona and Aodhan. Given more time, perhaps I could come up with a plan to stay with them in some capacity, maybe convince the CIA to use Fiona as an asset. It was a long shot, but it would give us a way to stay together, a bit of hope in a situation that was likely quite hopeless. "I want in on the raid," I finally declared.

"Michael, I understand you want to catch this guy, but I think you're forgetting what deep cover means. It means that if you're caught with a bunch of CIA operatives, you will most likely wind up dead or, at the very least, no longer welcome in Ireland."

"Then I won't get caught."

"You seem quite confident for someone who hasn't been able to find any of the guns we sent you to find."

"It's hard to do so when you won't let me fully participate."

Dan was silent for a moment before sighing. "Fine. But you will wear a mask, and you will do exactly as you're told. No lone Ranger bullshit."

"Deal."

"Okay. We should have the details worked out in the next couple days. Try and call me soon for those or you won't be joining us at all."

"I can do that."

"Good. And Michael? No more distractions. Especially not the pretty kind that likes to blow up cars." Instead of answering verbally, I hung up.

About ten minutes after his conversation with Dan, I heard movement in the bedroom, and I knew Aodhan was awake. I moved to the kitchen to prepare a snack, knowing the boy tended to do better with food in his stomach and often demanded some as soon as he awoke. I had just finished slicing an apple when Aodhan emerged from his room, dragging a stuffed dog behind him. He stopped in the doorway to the small kitchen, looking around. "Where's Mammy?"

"Mammy had to go out fer a bit," I said, hoping it truly was only a short while. Though I had watched Aodhan by myself a couple times before when Fiona stepped out for a quick run or some errands, it was never for very long and the boy was generally asleep the whole time.

"Why?"

"She jes' had a few things t'do. C'mon, I made ya a snack." I pointed to the apple. Aodhan moved to the table, crawling into the chair, and I felt a momentary sense of victory. Unfortunately, it was quickly quashed as Aodhan wrinkled his nose.

"I don't like apple."

"Ya ate it yesterday. An' the day b'fer that," I reasoned.

"But t'day it's yucky."

"Tis no different."

"It is! I don't want it!"

"C'mon, Aodhan, just eat the apple."

"I don't wanna!" In a fit of temper, Aodhan knocked the plate to the floor, sending the carefully-cut apple slices skidding across the linoleum. I felt anger bubble up inside me, but I forced myself to remain calm. Slowly, I took a deep breath, counting to three. When I had first met Aodhan, I had resolved that I would never become my father and never raise a hand in anger against the boy. I had managed to adhere to that promise very well so far, for Fiona dealt with the punishment when the four-year-old acted out. Unfortunately, Fiona was not around to help with the current situation.

When I felt calm enough to speak, I took a second breath. "Pick it up," I instructed.

"I won't!"

"Aodhan, I'm not playin' 'round here. Pick it up."

"Make me." Aodhan crossed his arms defiantly over his chest, and for a moment, I had a flashback, remembering a time when I faced my father with a similar expression. I had been a bit older than Aodhan at the time, perhaps six or seven, and my father had wanted me to pick up some toys Nate and I had scattered around the living room. I had given the very same instructions to Frank Westen, and the older man had proceeded to ensure that I did indeed pick up the toys. He had even given me a black eye as a reminder to keep the area clear of toys in the future. It had been remarkably effective—I had been a fastidious cleaner for years after that point, knowing the slightest thing out of place would incite my father's rage. In his current situation, I knew that Frank Westen's tactics would have been equally effective at ensuring the apples were removed from the floor. However, in the grand scheme of things, a few spilled apple slices seemed a small price to pay for something Frank and Michael Westen never had—a true father-son relationship built on love and trust instead of fear. And while my position in Aodhan's life was still not fully defined, it was definitely moving into father/son territory, a prospect that scared me less than I had expected. But if we did establish such a relationship, I wanted to be sure it was different than my relationship with my father.

"Go to your room," I told Aodhan, keeping my voice calm. It was a punishment I had seen Fiona employ numerous times. I only hoped it would be as effective for me.

"Why?"

"Because ya misbehaved. ya know the rules. Boys who misbehave have t'go to their rooms an' think about what they've done," I explained, parroting an excuse I had heard from Fiona.

"Mammy wouldn't make me go."

"I daresay yar mother would drag ya there kickin' and screamin'. Ya want me to do the same?" We stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to back down. Finally, Aodhan slid off the chair and stomped away. I heard the door slam with a surprising amount of force for his small size. Releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, I bent over to start cleaning up the apples. Though Aodhan was mad at me currently, I had learned that four-year-olds were fickle, and I doubted his temper would last long. And I had not had to resort to any sort of physical violence. It was the first time I truly began to believe that I was not doomed to repeat my father's mistakes.

I let Aodhan cool off for a few minutes before crossing to his room and knocking on his door. He did not answer, so I spoke first. "Can I come in?"

After a few seconds, he finally responded. "Ya can come." I stepped into the room to see him sitting cross-legged on his bed, glaring at the door.

"Do ya know why I sent ya t'yar room?" I questioned.

He glared for a moment more before his anger seemed to abate slightly. "Cuz I threw apples."

"And ya didn't listen t'me when I told ya t'clean them up."

"Sorry." He did look a bit contrite, and I felt I was making progress.

"Do ya still want a snack?" He nodded eagerly. "What d'ya want?"

"Ice cream!"

I could not stop the brief chuckle from escaping my lips. "Ya can't have ice cream 'fore dinner," I reminded him, knowing he was likely testing me. "How 'bout yogurt?" Though neither Fiona nor Aodhan had shown much interest in the fermented product before, I had always enjoyed it, and Aodhan had requested some as well the first time he had seen me eat it. After that, he had declared it was "yummy" and asked for his own every time he saw me eating it.

"I'll have yogurt," he agreed. "Blueberry?"

"I think we can manage that." Crisis averted, I led him to the kitchen where I found the desired yogurt. Peeling back the cap, I set it in front of him with a spoon. As he ate, I busied myself in the kitchen, searching for something to make for dinner. I was contemplating the freezer when I heard Aodhan call me over.

"Mick-ll! Mick-ll!" Responding to the urgency in his voice, I spun without even closing the freezer, my hand automatically dropping to rest on top of the gun in my waistband. However, Aodhan appeared unharmed if a bit messy, and I did not see any indication of danger.

"What's wrong?" I asked, stepping closer.

"Have some yogurt!" He held out a spoon with the treat. I suppressed a grimace, having never been fond of eating off the same utensils as someone else, especially someone who tended to coat everything around him with saliva as he ate. However, I knew I could not refuse the offer, for Aodhan was truly excited about sharing his yogurt. Trying to appear excited, I leaned forward just as he shoved the spoon toward me. It clattered against my teeth, and I got just as much yogurt on my lips as in my mouth. However, I knew better than to say anything about that to Aodhan.

"Thank ya," I said, swallowing. Aodhan beamed with pride, obviously happy I liked the treat. "Why don't ya eat the rest yarself?" I suggested, hoping to avoid more sticky offers. "I had a yogurt earlier, so I'm full."

"Okay!"

"What d'ya want fer dinner?"

"Cou-cou!" I was not surprised by the request. I had first cooked the Mediterranean grain a couple weeks before, and Aodhan had taken to it immediately—or, perhaps, taken to the mound of feta cheese he had piled on and the lime quarter Fiona had let him squirt over his food. However, he had also eaten the chicken and vegetables I cooked with it without complaint, so I was happy to make the meal again. Checking the fridge, I discovered there was still plenty of feta cheese as well as two limes, and I had seen a couple chicken breasts in the freezer.

"Couscous it is," I agreed, happy to have reached some sort of compromise. I began searching the refrigerator for the necessary vegetables. After a few seconds, I felt a prickling of the hairs at the back of my neck and turned to see Aodhan standing in the kitchen watching me carefully.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"Wit' dinner?" I hesitated, unsure of what a four-year-old could do. "I don't know. Don't ye wanna play wit' yer toys?"

"Mammy lets me help!"

"Yer mother's method o'cookin' dinner usually jes' involves the microwave. Tis a tad easier t'help wit' that," I pointed out logically.

"But I wanna help!" Aodhan stomped his foot, and I sensed another impending tantrum. I was not quite sure what had the normally even-keeled boy so upset on that particular night, but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that his mother was gone. Taking a deep breath to control my own temper, I considered my options. I did not want to discourage Aodhan from helping, so I wanted to give him something to do, but most of the tasks I had were not suitable for a four-year-old. I floundered for a moment before finally thinking of a workable solution. '

"Why don't you wash the vegetables?" I suggested, pulling them out of the refrigerator. Aodhan's eyes lit up at that suggestion, and I released my breath. Crisis two averted. Walking over, I helped him onto the stool Fiona kept in the kitchen for him and turned on the water so he could begin to wash as I chopped. We worked in silence for a few seconds until his next question caused my knife to clatter to the cutting board.

"Are ye me Da?" Aodhan questioned. He asked the question innocently enough, but I could hear the hint of hopefulness in his voice. I swallowed hard.

"What makes ye think that?"

Aodhan shrugged. "Kevin got a new Da. He said if ye were over here a lot, that means I had one too."

"I'm not yer father, Aodhan. I just like spendin' time wit' ye and yer mother."

Aodhan considered that for a moment. "Can ye be?"

"It doesn't work like that."

"Why not?"

"It jes' doesn't."

"Then it's stupid!"

"Sometimes, life is," I agreed.

The young boy was quiet for a moment, and I assumed the worst was over. I began to breathe a bit easier just as he asked another question. "Can I still call ye Da?"

"I don't know, Aodhan," I hesitated.

"Please! Everyone else has a da now! I want one, too!"

I sighed and turned to face him. "I don't know that ye really want me as yer da," I said. "I'm not exactly good at it."

"I want ye. Please, Mick-ll!"

"We need t'talk t'yer mother about it," I finally told him, trying hard to keep the slight waver from my voice. I had known Aodhan was growing close to me and had even encouraged it to some extent, for he was generally a good kid. However, I had not realized that he had become quite so attached. I had never expected to be a father to anyone, for my job was not conducive to settling down with a family and I had not had the greatest role model. But with Aodhan's blue eyes staring at me pleadingly, I could not help but think that maybe we could shape our own destinies and were not necessarily doomed to repeat our parents' mistakes.

Fortunately, the conversation turned more mundane after I deferred Aodhan's question to Fiona, and the small boy finished washing the vegetables before hopping off the stool. He stayed in the kitchen with me for a bit but eventually grew bored and left to play with his cars. As I waited for the vegetables to cook, he convinced me to join him in his game, and I spent half an hour crawling around the floor pushing a plastic car, wondering what my handler would think if he saw me in my current position. Fortunately, the kitchen timer rescued me, and I quickly cooked two chicken breasts and some couscous before setting everything on the table. Aodhan eagerly bounced over when I called him, settling into his seat. I sat beside him, and as we both began to eat, I belatedly remembered that he was supposed to wash his hands before dinner. Glancing over, I noticed he was already shoveling food into his mouth with a combination of his fork and his hands, and I decided the damage was done. What Fiona did not know would not hurt her.

As usual, Aodhan managed to get nearly as much food on the floor as in his stomach. In truth, it was partially my fault, for I had not thought to cut his chicken up for him. Instead of asking me to do so, he had stabbed his fork in the middle and lifted it to his mouth like some sort of chicken lollipop, accidentally knocking a good deal of couscous and feta cheese to the floor in the process. I quickly rectified the chicken situation, but it still meant that both he and the floor needed washing after eating. I sent him to find some pajamas and get ready for his bath as I began to clean up from dinner.

In retrospect, I should have known things were too quiet. However, I was so focused on my task that I did not even consider that a quiet four-year-old was a dangerous four-year-old. Just as I was finishing up the dishes, I heard him calling. "Mick-ll! Mick-ll!" I quickly turned toward the bathroom, nearly sprinting to the door. I stopped when I reached it and saw Aodhan standing in the middle of the small room, water lapping at his heels. That same water had flooded out of the bathroom and begun soaking the carpet outside. For a moment, I stared at him, stupefied at how much of a mess such a small boy could make, but I quickly snapped out of it and splashed over to the faucet to turn it off.

"What were ye doin'?" I questioned, my voice tight with anger. His face fell.

"I wanted t'help, so I turned it on like Mammy did. But it wouldn't turn off." I closed my eyes, trying to figure out how Fiona handled the boy every day. He seemed determined to destroy everything in his path. After a moment, he spoke again. "Ye're mad." His voice was soft, and it wavered a bit. I could tell he was on the verge of tears, and that was something I certainly did not want to deal with.

"Ye should've waited fer me," I told him.

"But I wanted t'help! Now ye'll never wanna be me da!" He did start crying at that point, taking huge gulping breaths as sobs wracked his small body. I knew I needed to do something to calm him down, but I had entered unchartered territory. In my household, tears would lead to a beating. Knowing that was not an option, I awkwardly crouched in front of the young boy and put my arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He went willingly, throwing his small arms around my neck as he sobbed into my shoulder. Automatically, I began to rub his back as I stood, trying to calm him. The action was more instinctual than I would have expected.

"I am upset that ye didn't wait, but that doesn't mean I don't want t'be yer father," I told him, searching deep inside myself for the appropriate words of comfort. "I would be honored t'be called yer da," I said. Aodhan's sobs seemed to lessen, and I felt a sense of triumph. "Ye're goin' t'do some things I don't like sometimes," I continued. "But that doesn't change how I feel about ye."

"Ye love me?" he questioned.

I hesitated only a moment. The words were not easy for me, for they were rarely used in my household and when they were, it was usually to manipulate. But despite my limited experience with children, I knew Aodhan needed to hear them. "I love ye," I told him.

"Me, too," he agreed, burying his head against my shoulder. I let him snuggle into my body for a moment. It felt surprisingly good. Finally, I set him back on his feet.

"Why don't ye get yer mammy's mop t'help me clean this up?" I suggested. Eagerly, he bounced off to do as I suggested, and I cringed only slightly as he splashed even more water onto himself and the carpet of the hallway in his eagerness.

At long last, I had the bathroom cleaned up and Aodhan settled into bed. Fortunately, the bedtime ritual was one I had performed before, and we read a couple more chapters of _Treasure Island_ together before he fell asleep. I quietly slipped out of the room and to the couch, intending to read until Fiona arrived home, but I soon found my own eyes growing heavy as the late night the previous night and the long day chasing after Aodhan caught up to me.

A slamming door jarred me awake what felt like seconds after I fell asleep. I quickly sat up on the couch, reaching for the gun holstered at my waist, but my hand paused when I recognized Fiona. She had a fire in her eyes that I had seen only a few times before, and I watched warily as she crossed the room to the locked cabinet where she kept a good deal of her arsenal. "Fi, what's wrong?" I questioned as she unlocked it and began to remove a good deal of heavy equipment.

"I don't want t'talk about it," she insisted, setting aside a .50 caliber machine gun so she could pull out a grenade launcher. My eyes went wide, and I pushed myself off the couch, stepping to her side.

"Talk t'me, Fi," I insisted, stilling her hands with mine.

"Why? So ye can 'talk some sense into me'?" she questioned, yanking her hands from mine so that she could continue to empty the cabinet.

"I didn't say that. C'mon, Fi, somethin's obviously upset ye."

"Upset? I'm not upset, Michael. Upset would be if I spilled somethin' on a new dress or ye forgot an anniversary. That's upset. I'm not upset right now. I'm livid."

"What happened, Fi?" This time, I wrapped both my arms around her so that she could not continue arming herself. She did not even struggle which made me even more worried.

"They crossed a line, Michael," she said.

"Who?"

"Who d'ye think? Those bloody British bastards! They raided the east side, jes' like Liam said. But they didn't stop there. Oh, no. They had t'prove somethin'. Well, all they proved was that they're a bunch o'heartless bastards that don't deserve t'live!"

"What did they do, Fi?" I questioned, half dreading the answer. I could not help but think that I was a soldier, that I was technically on the same side as the men Fiona was maligning. For the first time, I began to wonder if I was truly fighting for the right side.

"They went into the Harrington's house. Gerard's a known republican; they arrested him a few weeks ago, so none of us were sure what they were doin'. But then they drug his wife and daughter out into the street, made his wife kneel down on the dirty ground. The little girl's jes' six years old, and she was cryin', askin' what was goin' on, where her daddy was. An' do ye know what those bastards did?" I had a guess, but I could not bring myself to say it aloud. "They told her she would see him soon. And then they pulled out their guns and shot both her an' her mother in cold blood. Six years old, Michael! An' now she's dead." Fiona looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. I knew they were not just tears for the senseless loss of life that had occurred either; they were angry tears. Fiona was furious, madder than I had ever seen her before. And as angry as I was over the actions she had described, I knew that we could not act rashly. If we did something without thinking it through, we were likely to end up dead or in jail.

"Fi, I know ye're upset, but ye have t'calm down and think this through."

"No, Michael, I'm done thinkin' calmly. It's time t'give those bastards what they deserve."

"Fi, jes' wait a minute."

"No! What if it was Aodhan, Michael? That girl wasn't much older than him, and I'm definitely not a favorite of the British. What if they decide t'come after him next?"

"And what if ye do somethin' rash an' they put ye in jail? What d'ye think will happen t'Aodhan then?" That question caused her to stop for a moment, and I knew I was getting through. "I agree with you that they should pay, but we need t'have a plan, a way t'make sure we don't get caught. Because Aodhan needs ye alive and free, Fi. Ye know that."

She stared at me for a moment before deflating slightly. "I hate it when ye're right, McBride."

"Ye should get used te it," I suggested. I loosened my grip, stepping back slightly. She remained where she was though she did reach out and run a finger lovingly over the barrel of the machine gun. "Was anyone else hurt?" I questioned, drawing her attention away from the weapon. She turned back to me and shook her head.

"Not really. A coupla black eyes from a scuffle, but that's it. There weren't that many of them, and since we had advanced warning, we managed t'overpower them quickly. I actually thought it was all over when we heard Gerard's wife yellin'."

"So ye're okay?" I cupped her chin in my hand and turned her head to the side to ascertain if she was one of the black eyes from the scuffle. She waved me off.

"I'm fine, Michael. Tis not me I'm worried 'bout."

"And yer brothers? Ye're not s'posed to be meetin' them somewhere to rain hell down on the Brits, are ye?" I asked. Though I did not necessarily agree with their methods, I had come to like the Glenanne brothers well enough, and I did not want to see them in jail or worse.

"No, I'm not. Pat agrees with ye, that we need to regroup and plan our next move, and they all listen t'him." I smiled slightly at the hint of distaste in her tone. Her brothers may have all listened to Pat, but she did not and seemed unable to understand why they would.

"It's okay t'stop sometimes and think before actin', ye know," I remarked.

She scoffed and changed the subject. "How was Aodhan?" I hesitated, and she noticed immediately. Instantly, motherly concern overcame any lingering anger she felt. "What happened?"

"Nothing that bad," I assured her quickly. "We jes' had a mishap wit' the bathtub, and he had a temper tantrum over eating the apple I made him fer a snack. But the bathroom's cleaned up, and he apologized fer the apple." I paused, trying to think of the best way to articulate what I wanted to say next. "He also had an interestin' question earlier. Asked me if I was his father. Apparently, Kevin's parents got back together recently, and he put the idea in Aodhan's head."

I heard her sharp intake of breath before she spoke. "What did ye tell him?"

"I told him the truth."

"How did he take it?"

"Well enough, I s'pose. Though he still asked if he could call me 'Da.' I told him we'd have t'talk t'ye. I hope that's okay."

She gave me a small smile, shaking her head. "Ye really are one of a kind, McBride." She began to lean forward, her lips hovering just over mine.

"Michael," I corrected just before our lips met in a sensual kiss. Though I was grudgingly okay with her calling me McBride when we were planning a job or working on one, I wanted to make sure I was always Michael during more amorous activities. It felt less dishonest, and since I was beginning to realize that my feelings for her were perhaps the only honest thing we had, I wanted to preserve that.

-Mature scene-

I turned so that we could tumble onto the couch together, our lips still locked together. My hands began to tug the sweater she wore from her pants, and she raised her torso from the couch so that I could pull it off her body. I next removed the sleeveless shirt she wore beneath it as well, letting my hands smooth over her upper body. I cupped her breasts in my palms, relishing the small gasp she gave as I ran my fingers over the nipples which showed through the fabric of her bra. She pressed into me, and I repeated the action, squeezing a bit harder. My lips moved from her lips to her neck before descending further. As they ghosted across the top of her breasts, she raised her hips to press into mine, and I closed my own eyes against the cascade of sensation. I was determined to take care of Fiona's needs first, to help her relax and stop thinking about the horrors she had seen, even if it was only a few minutes' respite.

Fiona lifted her torso from the couch again, and I knew what she wanted immediately. Reaching behind her, I unclipped her bra, allowing me unfettered access to her entire upper body. My lips began their assault, soon causing her to squirm eagerly beneath me. I heard her breathe my name, her words cut off by a moan, and I smiled, relishing my ability to cause her to sound like that. I reached down and unbuttoned her pants, and she helped me to push them off her body. My hands skimmed her long, toned legs on their way to her underwear, and I spent a few moments enjoying their softness. Her pleas soon became louder, and I acquiesced to her request. I quickly pulled her underwear from her body, briefly pressing the heel of my hand to her most sensitive area as I removed them. She bucked into my touch. I knew what she wanted, but I was not finished with her yet, so I removed the pressure.

Bending over, I let my lips slide over the smooth skin of her legs. Every time I moved closer to the area I knew she wanted me most, I would skip over it, unable to suppress a smirk as she quietly chastised me for my oversight. Still, I did not give her what she wanted, for I wanted her to ask. Fortunately, I did not have to wait long; after my third pass, she finally groaned, "Please, Michael."

"As ye wish," I muttered, sliding my tongue between her folds. She gave a loud moan before throwing her hand over her mouth, belatedly remembering her sleeping son in the next room. I glanced up at her and then nodded in the direction of the bedroom to see if she wanted to put a locked door between us and the sleeping boy, but she quickly shook her head. That action caused me to grin even wider. It seemed she was quite eager for me to continue. With that thought in mind, I returned my lips to her folds, sucking her clitoris into my mouth. Her squirming increased exponentially, and I grabbed her hips to hold her in place as I continued my assault with my lips and tongue. It was not long before she was quaking beneath me, her cries of pleasure mostly muffled by her hand. I continued to stimulate her until she fell back against the couch, boneless. Smirking slightly, I let my lips travel over the rest of her body until they met hers.

"Seems there's still some unfinished business," she remarked, reaching down to grasp my erection through my pants. I thrust involuntarily into her grip.

"Let's go t'the bedroom fer that," I suggested, not trusting myself to keep quiet enough to avoid waking Aodhan. In truth, I was already pretty far gone, the heady arousal seeping through my blood and making me want to do nothing more except thrust into her until I finished. Obviously, some of that eagerness showed on my face, for she smiled broadly.

"The bedroom sounds good," she agreed. With that, I picked her up and carried her swiftly into that room, shutting and locking the door behind us.


End file.
